


In a much better company

by Lyrae



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence - A Scandal in Belgravia, Christmas, Christmas Dinner, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt Jim, Hurt Jim Moriarty, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jim Has Issues, Jim Moriarty in Sherlock's Mind Palace, Jim is a Little Shit, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mind Palace, Mycroft is a Bit Not Good, POV Multiple, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pre-Reichenbach, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock in Jim's Mind Palace, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:27:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28301586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae/pseuds/Lyrae
Summary: December 24th, 2011, James Moriarty has a meeting with the Ice Man the next day, an incoming plan to bring down Sherlock and a fall to take. Tonight though... Well, there's nothing stopping him from visiting his favourite detective, now is there?On Christmas' Eve, Sherlock Holmes gets an unexpected guest.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 41
Kudos: 59





	1. To you and me

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I needed to make a relatively sweet thing for once?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 06/01/2021

Sherlock Holmes frowned, his bow stopping its dance on the strings of his violin, the note drifting too long and breaking the melody. 

Someone was climbing up the stairs leading to his flat, slowly, purposely, each step bringing whoever it was closer to his door… 

The intruder was being quiet, careful with the way they placed their feet but not trying to be silent either - _t_ _hey had barely slowed when the wood had creaked beneath them, so they either meant no harm or were confident in their ability to take him out even if he knew he had a guest_ \- and with their pace - _one foot staying still for just a little longer_ \- he could deduce that they were carrying something. 

"Come in. " he said when he heard the person stopping before the entrance, apparently hesitating. 

"I didn't think you'd invite me yourself honey. " 

That tilting voice, that recognisable accent, that _tone_ -

James Moriarty pushed the door open and entered, black silhouette in his doorway, putting down whatever he had brought on the ground. He stretched his neck to the side in that reptilian fashion of his, smiling in a mockery of pleasantness as he casually waved at Sherlock. 

Navy blue suit, burgundy tie and silver cufflinks, the man cut a striking figure in the entrance of his flat, his grin just as sharp as his eyes. 

"Well, killing a man on Christmas Eve would be quite uncivilized, even for you. " Sherlock merely said in a clipped tone, turning his back to the criminal in an effort to focus back on his violin, ignoring every instinct howling in his head that purposely losing sight of James Moriarty was the stupidest mistake he could make. It wasn't like the man was here to kill him after all…

"If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't currently be having this conversation my dear. "

And the amusement in his voice made it clear that ignoring him would not make him go away. 

Sighing in annoyance, the detective twirled, his dressing gown swirling behind him as his features twisted in anger and annoyance. He didn't _want_ to deal with the criminal right now, he wasn't going to say that he didn't love the game and the chase- _that would be a lie,_ but as interesting as the man was, this wasn't a good moment. 

"What do you want, Moriarty? " he snarled, low and dangerous. 

Sherlock would usually be inclined to go just along with whatever Moriarty gave him and follow his little clues, but tonight he was… tired. 

For once he had almost been looking forward to Christmas, John would be there - _his new girlfriend as well but it didn't matter, she wouldn't last long_ \- Molly and Lestrade too, even if their presences weren't as important, and they would all have a nice evening after all the events with the Woman… 

Then Harry had apparently decided that it would be nice to catch up with her brother, Molly had found a new boyfriend who insisted on spending the night in the countryside and even Gary - _Gerald_? - suddenly had to take care of his children since his wife was away. 

One would have been annoying, two a little weird, but all of his friends suddenly being occupied somewhere else with Mrs Hudson on a vacation and Mycroft completely unreachable? 

That could hardly be called a coincidence. 

"Wouldn't you like to know? " Jim's eyes were just as dead as they always were, but there was a hint of amusement beneath the surface as he continued "I'm your Christmas present. "

Sherlock snorted, immediately disregarding the answer. 

"And the reason why everyone suddenly had other appointments, I take it."

The criminal must have noticed the ice in his voice but his behaviour didn't change, his amusement seemingly growing until it wasn't even hidden anymore, his glee reflected by his broadening grin. 

"Why, are you sad because your little Christmas party was cancelled? "

"Hardly. " Sherlock scoffed, putting down his violin. He wasn't going to be able to play with Moriarty there anyway.

"Liiiiiiiiar~" 

_Had the man been this infuriating at the pool?_

He thought back on the threats, on the almost sang words, on the barely veiled flirting-

_Absolutely, he had just been more focused on John's safety than anything else at this point._

"Let's cut the chase, I'll ask again, what do you want? "

The criminal didn't stop grinning, but the expression suddenly seemed much darker, dangerous, the smile deceptively sweet as the fairy lights reflected in his black eyes 

"I do remember saying something about burning the heart out of you…" He trailed off, licking his lips as if he found the thought appetizing. Knowing Moriarty, he probably did "I won't say I'm not pursuing that in the long run, but I'm sure that could wait until after dinner. "

_I'm not hungry, let's have dinner_ , his mind recalled unhelpfully. 

He certainly didn't have the time to think about the Woman with the world's only consulting detective in front of him, waiting for an answer. 

_But dinner? Sherlock didn't cook and they had thought they would just order take out for the party so the pantry was probably empty-_

His eyes fell on the bag Moriarty had brought and the man answered the glance with a wink. 

"I'm afraid I do still need to prepare some things, cook some of the food and put others in the fridge for later… I trust your little pet had cleaned it earlier? Experimenting is nice but the kitchen isn't usually the best place to do so. " he hummed softly, as if he hadn't just said what Sherlock had heard. 

"You can cook? _You_ _??_ "

The other arched an eyebrow, his head tilted to the side, looking more amused than annoyed by his outburst. 

"Of course, and _you_ can't, which is quite sad honestly, cooking is a useful skill. "

Ignoring the detective currently at loss for word, he grabbed his bag and strolled into the kitchen like he owned the place, putting the groceries near the counter before taking off his suit jacket and carefully placing it on a chair. 

"I assume that you will provide the conversation even if you're going to be useless with the preparations… Or maybe you could continue playing, I'm partial to Paganini if you do. " Moriarty crooned when he noticed he hadn't been followed.

A few seconds later, Sherlock arrived to see the criminal's fingers hesitate over his sleeves as if he was considering rolling them up, the clothes barely revealing his skin for a second. 

_What had he seen beneath the fabric? His mind must have played tricks on him for an instant, surely that couldn't be-_

The next thing he knew, the Irish imp was wearing a ridiculous apron with 'Kiss the consulting criminal' embroidered alongside stylized magpies, grinning mischievously and holding a very, 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺, sharp knife, eyes suddenly so very empty. He feared for an instant that Moriarty had already gotten tired of the charade and had decided to skin him in place of his ingredients - _he had said it himself after all, he was changeable that way._

"Cat got your tongue? "

To Sherlock's surprise, the man did not use the opportunity to stab him and leave him bleeding out on his kitchen floor, but instead turned back to his bag after the comment and started taking out food in various states, laying them out on the counter. 

Fresh mushrooms - _chanterelles,_ his mind provided, cream, various condiments and what looked like alcohol-

Some had obviously been prepared beforehand, either by the criminal or someone else, and just needed to be cooked, while others were completely raw… 

"Are you really going to cook in my kitchen?" Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest, knowing he looked like a petulant child without being able to bring himself to care "And do you honestly believe that I will eat anything coming out of your hands? "

Moriarty shook his head in mock disappointment, idly playing with the knife. 

"You should just continue playing Bach if you're going to ask such obvious things… And if I wanted to have you killed, I wouldn't bother with preparing you a meal at all, I have some good snipers you know? " he glanced at the windows, smirking "You could be dead where you stand. "

Sherlock acted like he wasn't bothered by the obvious threat, sullenly stayed silent, his eyes flying over everything the man touched in an effort to ignore the danger. 

Of course he knew that his flat wasn't the most secure place in England, his brother had fussed again and again about how easy it would be to fire a bullet from one of the surrounding buildings, but he had also known _thought? -_ that Mycroft was keeping a close watch on everyone coming near in the street… He hardly thought the older infallible, but it was still a distressing thought. 

Would one of Moriarty's snipers really be able to kill him from here? 

_They had aimed at John's head without hesitation after he had grabbed Moriarty at the pool_ , _a man less confident in his skills would have abandoned altogether, which meant that as much as he loathed to admit it, the criminal wasn't lying :_

_Shooting him here wouldn't be hard._

"I can tell you're curious~" Moriarty sing-sang, overtly amused. The man had to know how much it infuriated Sherlock when he didn't even seem to take their conversation seriously "And I did say I was your Christmas present, didn't I? Ask away honey. "

Sherlock kept the scowl threatening to invade his features at bay, his face carefully blank. The criminal was offering information, seemingly freely, it wouldn't do any good to make him lose his cool right now, not if he wanted to learn anything.

Yes, it would be better to just play along. 

"If you could have me shot where I stand, why not do it? You did say you would kill me at some point anyway-" _after burning the heart out of me_ "-but what about John? I thought you had made your dislike of him rather clear. "

Whatever reactions he had expected, giggling hadn't been one of them. 

"Darling, if I had truly disliked him, I'm sure you would have noticed his brains splattered on the walls by now, I don't tend to let people that I don't like live very long. "

_Except that was a lie, wasn't it? Or not the whole truth at least._

It was Sherlock's turn to look amused as he arrogantly arched an eyebrow. 

"Mycroft is still alive as far as I'm aware. "

And for an instant, time in the kitchen _froze._

Something flickered in Moriarty's eyes, something that _burned,_ and _screamed,_ and Sherlock almost involuntarily took a step back when he saw it, taken aback by that feral _thing_ he saw in the abyss. Hatred, pure, unadulterated _loathing._ Sherlock hadn't even believed the other, more spider than man, could feel something so strongly when he wasn't wearing a mask. 

His grip on the knife tightened dangerously, his voice icy, clinical. 

"The Ice Man is a special case I'm afraid, not that I didn't have the opportunities to have him removed, my chief sniper was rather insistent that he could kill him whenever I gave him the word." the smirk on his face had twisted as soon as Sherlock had mentioned his brother and now it couldn't even be called a smile, Moriarty baring his teeth in an almost feral manner. "But darling… I said that you could ask anything and your first question was on your brother? Tsss, I wouldn't have come here if I had known you would talk about Mycroft."

He would have thought the man looked wounded if the criminal had been anyone else, but right now Sherlock would place his bet on annoyance and-

_nerves?_

It probably wasn't that, but he hardly looked as impassible as he wanted to, and the half-prepared goose laying untouched on the counter betrayed that fact. 

"Alright, I admit that wasn't the best opening…" his mind flew over everything the man had said, everything he had done, wondering what he could safely ask about "What about that chief sniper then? Is it the same one that could kill me where I stand? The one who had been aiming at John?"

If it was possible, the irritation on Moriarty's face only seemed to increase, the knife forgotten as his manicured fingers tapped rapidly on the counter. This time he didn't look half as murderous at least. 

"Antarctica then, my sniper now? If I didn't know you, I would say you are trying to rile me up on purpose, but as your social skills are rather disastrous-" Sherlock seemed ready to interject but the other continued "-I'll be optimistic and say that you just don't know how to be a good host." dark eyes pinned the detective to the wall, as if daring him to disagree. "And yes, it is the same man, I would have had to send him out of the country to keep him away from Baker Street, and I do need him in London tomorrow so that would have been a hassle. "

_The man was loyal to a fault then, but that also meant that Moriarty believed he would ignore direct orders if the sniper thought he was acting for his boss' best interest..._

Sherlock hadn't thought that the criminal would keep a man like that around, and much less that Moriarty would inspire this type of complete devotion in his employees, but well, John somehow liked _him,_ so why wouldn't anyone enjoy Moriarty's company? 

Maybe it was time to realise he actually didn't have any information on the consulting criminal except for the crumbs he had dropped during their previous conversations and whatever Mycroft had tried to scare him away with. 

"You wanted me to ask about you… Suit yourself, what's your biggest weakness? Any lethal allergy? Do you have a turn-off switch somewhere behind your ear? "

Moriarty genuinely laughed, more genuinely than he had before at least, his crinkled eyes making him look far too young and innocent. It would be easy to forget the man overtook governments for a living when he looked like that. 

"Aww darling, I did say to ask questions, but don't you think we should get to know each other before you get personal like that? Or do you really think I'm the kind of guy to babble to the first pretty thing with long legs and wild curls? I'm wounded. " he exclaimed in mock shock, his hand resting on his heart. 

_Well_ , _that had been worth a shot…_

And did that man ever stop flirting?

"Fair enough, even if I am hurt that you still act like we're strangers after you tried to blow me up…" Sherlock smirked, purposely looking at the criminal from beneath his fluttering eyelashes "I thought we had something special Mr Moriarty. " 

The surprise flashing in those dark eyes when Sherlock played along wasn't entirely faked this time, and the pleased expression was completely real. 

"Mr Moriarty? Oh no no no, Mr Moriarty was my father, it's Jim for you honey, or James if you want to be more formal" he purred, his cooking all but forgotten on the counter. 

"Well Mo-" Sherlock stopped before he could finish, correcting himself _"-Jim,_ let's start with something a little less personal then, and tell me, when did I catch your interest? "

Apparently remembering they would need to eat at some point during the evening, the man turned on the oven and turned back to the abandoned goose, continuing what he had started before answering. 

"You remember the Carl Powers' case, of course." _Of course_ "I found it quite fascinating that another child had- well, not quite solved it, but discovered that there WAS a case in the first place." Jim laughed again, but this time it sounded slightly off, slightly bitter "It was funny, wasn't it? How they all wanted to stay blind even after you shoved the evidence in their faces… I was quite interested in you from the beginning, but I have to admit that seeing you come over and over again even though they refused to see the truth was probably what caught my attention in the end. "

_Oh._

_He had sounded... surprisingly honest?_

Sherlock wasn't one to believe everything someone told him for no reason, but Moriarty hadn't lied to his face before, even when he had been "Jim from IT", he had hidden most of the truth of course, but not outwardly 𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘥.

"Maybe I should have made contact then, but by the time I was ready to do so, you were gone and I didn't even have your name… " Jim seemed wistful for an instant, not quite there anymore "I found you pretty quickly you know? Just not quickly enough. "

There was another pause, longer this time, only punctuated by the sound of the knife slicing the meat. 

"We met at some point, years ago, in a drug den, I tried talking to you but you were so _slow_." 

_Twack_ , the knife embedded itself in the goose and Sherlock wondered whether it was the anger, the disappointment or the utter anguish Jim's voice that hurt the most. 

He wondered why it hurt at all. 

"Your brother was the most interesting Holmes for a while, sadly enough, then you came back from the dead somehow and now I'm almost glad that you're constantly in my way. "

_'I missed you'_ he clearly meant, and Sherlock forced himself to ignore the warmth in his chest but he understood the implication.

Maybe it was the closest thing to the truth he would get from the man. 

Sherlock swallowed and now that Moriarty was silent too, he forced himself to focus on the preparations, only noticing what had been placed on the counter now. 

_Wait._

He frowned, looking closer.

_Weren't all those things needed in his favourite recipes? How could Jim possibly know that?_

Sherlock froze, reviewing all of the ingredients again, trying to find a discrepancy. 

Of course, those could be used to prepare other things, but with the way some had already been prepared…? 

His parents knew about his preferences of course, but they weren't supposed to be in contact with the consulting criminal and they wouldn't just randomly tell a stranger so how-

Oh. 

Of course. 

As much as he disliked him, he did have an older brother, one who knew about his favourite dishes and could have talked to Jim. 

The question was on the tip of his tongue, but as he was about to ask, the other turned around, smirking, his previous mood all but gone. 

"Alright, most things just need to stay in the oven or the pan for a while, so let's just drink something as we wait, alright? I brought the wine of course."

_Of course._

Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbing two glasses before stepping to the side and gesturing at the living room's entrance. 

"After you. "

The bottle in his hands- _something ridiculously expensive and hopefully somewhat good_ , Jim walked past the detective and sank into Sherlock's favourite chair, his cocky smirk making it clear that he knew it would irk the other. The detective merely pursed his lips and sat opposite, staring at the criminal, observing, scrutinizing. 

They poured the wine into their respective glasses, looking at each other in silence. 

_To my enemies_ sounded too impersonal. 

_To new beginnings_ , too general.

…

 _To you and me_ , they thought. 

Jim grinned, raised his glass. 

"Cheers. "


	2. Shot to the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Jim talk, eat, and get some answers-  
> Or well, TRY to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second chapter is here~
> 
> edited 06/01/2021

_ Something wasn't quite right.  _

Now that Jim wasn't turning his back on him and the adrenaline from having the criminal in his close proximity had gone down, it was quite obvious, there was a slightest hint of tension, a strange energy strumming between the two of them. 

"Why did you look for me? " Sherlock asked idly, buying himself time for further analysis "I was trying to find Powers' killer, logic would have it that you try to avoid me, not that you seek me out. "

Jim rolled his eyes, they both knew that the answer was obvious after all. 

"Would you let your equal slip away from you? Your mirror image disappear somewhere, never to be seen again? Your doppelganger vanish when they don't even know you exist? " 

There was a pause, the wine twirling in Jim's glass, and Sherlock took advantage of that moment of inattention to study the other. 

Most of his initial observations had been pushed aside by the fact that the criminal knew how to cook and was preparing a Christmas dinner for the two of them, but now that Jim had taken off that stupid apron, they all came back to the front of his thoughts as if they had never truly left, his mind comparing the man in front of him to the one he had met at the pool. 

Moriarty was paler, not quite sickly looking but certainly not in the best shape, his face seemed more guarded, his frame tenser, and the bags under his eyes, while still not too visible, were certainly a lot darker than they had been. There was a hollowness in his cheeks that hadn't been there before, an edge in his gaze, a strain in his features-

"...-" 

The criminal had said something apparently, and the annoyance he overtly displayed made it clear that he was waiting for an answer. 

"What? "

"I asked why you were staring at my face like that, do I have some sauce on my cheek or something?" He asked, taking out his phone to use it as a mirror and using his opportunity to brush is already perfect hair with his fingertips. 

_ Sauce, really?  _

"I was just wondering if there was a link between the unrest with London's criminals for the last three months and the fact that we're currently having a Christmas dinner. " Sherlock drawled, not expecting the way Jim's eyes immediately cooled. He didn't look angry exactly, but certainly displeased. 

"Well, deduce what you will, Sherly, I'll leave you with your thoughts for a minute since the oven won't turn itself off. "

The man stood up and left the room without another word and Sherlock fought the urge to follow him, his brows furrowing in bewilderment. His small question had really been enough to offend him that much? 

_ His mood was… fragile, to say the least.  _

"Not going to answer then? Did I hit a sore point?" he called out, hoping to goad the man into reacting. 

"I'm not talking business during my day off~ " was the immediate answer, the half-sung syllables drifting off between them with an air of finality. 

Sherlock knew he wouldn't get more information right now, but still-

The five pips had been business, the lab had been business, the pool had been business, but this…  _ wasn't? _

Of course, it was obvious that the criminal had been interested in him before that -  _ and he had admitted it himself,  _ so their little games had always been more than just a mastermind taking out his rival, but still, the network, the  _ web,  _ had always been in the background. 

Sherlock frowned, leaning back into his chair. 

Moriarty couldn't just leave him alone -  _ couldn't he though? It wasn't like all of the man's operations were in London,  _ but he hadn't needed to pay him a visit on Christmas Eve to give him a message either, hadn't needed to prepare his favourite dishes or to humour his questions to do so

_ Just what was he trying to do? Compromise him in front of his friends?  _

Sherlock snorted to himself. 

_ He hardly cared about his reputation-  _

_ Wait.  _

_ His friends.  _

_ The same friends that had simultaneously ended up with other plans, the same friends that should have been there but would have never let Jim Moriarty into the flat-  _

"Dress the table while daddy brings the food, would you? " he heard from the other room. 

Obeying the voice and putting the plates on the table alongside their glasses and the cutlery let Sherlock focus back on the situation at least, and the next second Jim was coming back with the dishes. 

"You're the reason why everyone had other plans, aren't you? " he asked, wary. 

The criminal smirked, apparently relaxed. 

"Obviously. You don't need to worry your pretty head about them though, I assure you that I did nothing to endanger them, I merely…  _ distracted  _ them. " he said with a small smirk, looking all too pleased with himself "I hardly think any of them would have been happy to see me, and with DI Lestrade here, I might have finished my evening in a cell. "

_ As if,  _ Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes.

He doubted the man would go to jail even if he was caught covered in blood, elbow-deep in some poor chap's ribcage…

_ Which was why it would be nice if Jim didn't decide to turn him into said poor chap.  _

"You're also the reason why Mycroft hasn't shown up here after hearing I was alone, aren't you? "

For a second, he thought that the criminal would close off again, but this time he merely shook his head, his meal still lying untouched in his plate. 

"Nah, this one isn't on me, I know for sure that Big Brother is up to something tomorrow, but tonight?" he shrugged exaggeratedly, looking disinterested as could be. 

_ It would probably be for the best to drop the subject there, before it fouled the mood again.  _

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, glancing at his plate. 

Whatever Jim had cooked looked like something you would eat in a gastronomic restaurant, the presentation clean and almost clinical, flawless, but not completely giving away just what he was going to eat. There were some elegantly cut pieces of roasted goose of course, but the rest? 

"Don't you want to try it instead of glaring daggers at your food? " the criminal asked with a raised eyebrow, amusement swimming in the abysses of his eyes. 

_ He didn't have much of a choice now.  _

Carefully cutting a small piece of the goose and mixing it with some of the side dishes, he brought the fork to his lips and closed his eyes, intent on finding out just what the other had made. 

It tasted like home strangely enough,  _ impossibly  _ enough. 

Of course it looked nothing like the Christmas meals his mother liked to make, she preferred to keep the dishes traditional looking, either because she liked it that way or because it would simply take too long to make something as elaborate as Jim had for 4 people, but apart from the appearance, the taste was exactly the same-

_ Goose with chestnut and chanterelle accompaniment.  _

Sherlock looked up after a few seconds and saw the other staring at him, taking in his reactions, his expression almost warm. 

"You like it then? "

_ It was his favourite dish, of course he did.  _

"It's delicious. " he said slowly, taking another bite. Jim smiled in response, obviously pleased, and Sherlock wondered just how much of it was an act. 

_ But why had he bothered to look for that recipe? Or to learn what he liked in the first place?  _

Knowing Mycroft, he wouldn't have said anything if he didn't gain something in exchange, so the information certainly wouldn't have been for free-

Just what had he traded away for some mundane information about him? 

_ In the end, it all revolved around that, didn't it?  _

_ Jim's obsession with him, Sherlock's obsession with Jim.  _

They got to the desert at some point while he was focused elsewhere-  _ some delightfully cool thing with chocolate and clementines,  _ but there was still something he didn't quite understand. 

"Where did you get that recipe? "

"I called your mother? Where else was I supposed to find it? It's not like the Ice Man knew it." the criminal answered with a small smirk, as if it was self-evident. 

_ What-  _

_ Putting away, for now, the fact that he had apparently contacted his parents, he had been unable to send cases his way for almost three months, he obviously didn't want to talk about whatever he had been doing yet he acted like Mycroft would have given him the recipe if he had known it? That could only mean one thing, that his brother had ignored his request to stay out of his business with the criminal and had decided to take matters into his own hands by picking up Moriarty and probably trying to interrogate him.  _

Sherlock shook his head, scoffing mentally at the thought. 

_ As if anyone could make the criminal divulge anything he didn't want. Knowing the man, he would have had so many fail-safes in place that killing him or permanently harming him would have brought England to its knees anyway, so they wouldn't have been able to truly hurt him and the interrogations would have only made him angrier…  _

Yet, Mycroft must have realised just how alike his brother and Jim were, must have known that their greatest advantage, as well as their biggest weakness, were the same : their mind. 

_ It was surprisingly easy to turn that pesky thing against its owner, a palace made to avoid what was going on in the real world could easily turn into a prison.  _

Sherlock flinched, forcing his thoughts away from whatever his brother had done to hurt the criminal, and he was angry of so course, furious at Mycroft for hurting the man when he had explicitly told him to stay away from the whole thing, but mostly surprised that Jim hadn't tried to gut him as revenge yet. 

Even now, he looked surprisingly calm, almost content, a slight blush dusted on his cheek -  _ either because of the heat or the alcohol,  _ and his eyes were still amused, his expression so much less guarded than it had been before. He seemed almost  _ carefree _ . 

Jim grinned and stood up, circling the table until he was on Sherlock's side before sitting down next to him, the fairy lights casting a soft glow on his features. 

"Cat got your tongue darling? " the man asked, echoing his words from earlier that night. It was funny how much nicer they sounded now that Jim wasn't saying them with a knife in his hands. The criminal smiled and made the wine swirl inside his glass before sipping a mouthful, and for an instant, a mere second, his sleeve fell down a few millimeters, barely revealing the skin. That glimpse was all he needed. 

It was enough for Sherlock to see that his first observations when Jim had taken off his vest had been right, enough to catch a glimpse of the scars, of the now yellowish bruises, enough to notice the shape and deduce just what had happened… 

What he did next was brash and quite absurd, but his mind was howling in his ears, asking for more, asking for  _ proofs, _ and so he reached out, grabbing Jim's wrist _ - _

At least that had been the plan, but his fingers had barely been brushing against the skin when the criminal had violently yanked his arm away, his pupils blown wide with something wild and feral, his teeth bared in warning. 

Sherlock froze for an instant before slowly moving his hand away, observing the other. 

His hand was twitching, adrenaline but not fear, his face twisted into an ugly snarl until it was barely recognizable, wine staining his previously white shirt where his glass had hit his chest, there was no traces of James Moriarty, the unfeeling mastermind who only masqueraded sentiments when it was useful. 

No, this was different, this was  _ raw,  _ he hadn't planned Sherlock's reaction just like he hadn't planned his outburst and now a myriad of emotions were flickering inside his bottomless eyes, a flash of shock, an hint of fear before it was squashed away-  _ neither caused by Sherlock or the pain but because of his own involuntary response and what it had given away,  _ and then pure, unrestrained fury. 

He looked absolutely  _ murderous.  _

Then the next second Jim was looking away, breathing in, out, before passing his hand through his hair and messing up the carefully slicked-back strands, the rage ebbing away in favour of irritation. 

Sherlock didn't even wonder whether his wrath had been because of the wasted wine, the ruined shirt or his own reaction, James Moriarty wasn't the type of man lacking money after all, and even if he liked his wardrobe, a stained cloth would annoy him but not enrage him that much. 

Jim sighed, glancing at his chest. 

With the location of the stain, it would almost look like he had been shot right to the heart if the wine was a bit lighter, the liquid splattered on his chest in an artful rendition of a gun wound but leaving his trousers fortunately dry. 

"I don't suppose you have a spare shirt that could fit me somewhere in that flat of yours? "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked this :)


	3. Hot chocolate and candy cane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sweater is found, chocolates are drunk and old plans are mentioned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW : quickly mentioned torture in this chapter

Sherlock frowned, looking at the inside of his wardrobe again. 

After Jim's question, he had handed him some kitchen towels and said he would look for something in his room, leaving the other in the living room to dry himself a bit, but he really had no idea what he could give the man. 

Any of his shirts would be oversized seeing the height difference between the two of them, and he didn't think either the criminal or his friend would be very happy if he gave away one of John's oatmeal jumpers...

He pushed aside his suits and his shirts, digging further into the closet, further into his memories. 

_ Nah, too big, not this one either, the colour wouldn't go well with Jim's trousers and this one's shade would simply look ridiculous with his completion, no, nop, still not the right one-  _

His hands brushed against a familiar fabric and he froze. 

Oh. 

He had bought this one to Baker Street with him?

Smiling, Sherlock took out the sweater, glancing at the painstakingly knit patterns, at the carefully woven snowflakes, his fingers running across the wool as he tried to ignore the pang of melancholy inside his chest. 

His mother had made it for him the Christmas before he left for Oxford and lost himself in the drugs and boredom, it was a bit too small for him now, but he had kept it for some nonetheless, unable to throw away this relic of a happier time… 

_ Sentiment,  _ he thought with a scoff. 

Mycroft always said that caring wasn't an advantage, but Sherlock knew that he would find the jumper mummy had gifted him in  _ his  _ wardrobe too, hidden away behind the three-piece suits and the umbrellas. 

The knowledge amused him, a little at least. 

Would Jim accept it though? It didn't look anything like what the man usually wore, even when he had been 'Jim from IT', and it was hard to go farther from his sleek suits, with their modern style and sharp cut. 

Still, the wool was the same burgundy his tie was and the elaborate snowflake almost looked like stars… 

_ He didn't have anything else anyway, if the man was unhappy with it, he would just leave.  _

_ …  _

_ Somehow the thought of the criminal sneering and walking away left him dissatisfied.  _

Sherlock sighed and left the room, holding his find. 

"You said you were my Christmas present, so consider this yours. " he said, handing out the sweater, staring right at Jim, as if daring him to refuse. 

There was no contempt in his eyes though, no disdain and no distaste, he just looked surprised for an instant, almost puzzled, unguarded, but the next second he was smiling brightly, reaching out to take the offered jumper. 

"Thank you. " 

The words were barely a whisper, slow, almost reverent, Sherlock would have thought he had dreamed them if it wasn't for the half-glare Jim sent his way afterwards, daring him to comment. 

Sherlock wondered if it was his first Christmas sweater… Maybe it was his first Christmas  _ anything,  _ he didn't know about the man's childhood but being a consulting criminal meant that he probably didn't receive a lot of presents, not spontaneous ones at least. 

He was so lost in his own realization that he almost completely missed Jim taking off his shirt to put on the jumper, the skin he had wanted to examine earlier finally revealed for a few seconds. 

Just like he had deduced, whoever had interrogated him had been careful not to leave too many marks, but to a trained eye, it was easy to see the fading bruises-  _ beatings, probably more to keep him on his toes than to truly hurt him,  _ the almost gone puncture wounds-  _ needles, drugs, maybe in an effort to drag him out of his mind palace,  _ and the thin scars left by a precise and clinical knife-  _ made in places that would especially hurt if-  _

His eyes drifted to Jim's wrists. 

_ Oh yes, he had been right, here they were, the still healing wounds left by the handcuffs! Either he had trashed or they had kept him in a stress position long enough for his legs to give out beneath him and for his weight to rest for a while on his wrists, most likely the second option seeing as the cuts had been placed precisely to make this type of position more uncomfortable.  _

The man looked better than he thought he would though, almost everything seemed to have healed already, leaving behind reddish marks among the constellations of silvery scars he already had, which meant that Jim hadn't stayed in a cell for the last three month but had put business aside even after his release. 

"How do I look? " 

Jim's voice startled him, and Sherlock did his best to ignore the knowing look sent his way as the criminal slowly turned on his heels, his arms raised, his lips upturned, his head thrown back to face a god only he could see. 

_ How do I look?  _

Young, innocent and carefree, his hair mussed and his eyes bright, he seemed so terrifyingly harmless this way, horrifyingly  _ inoffensive _ , no one would ever think the man had a criminal empire spanning over the entire globe when he smiled like that. Sherlock would love to say that he wasn't unnerved or fazed, that he would have seen right through the disguise if Jim had presented himself this way the first time they met, that he would have laughed and deduced everything in a second, but they both knew it would be a lie,  _ 'Jim from IT'  _ confirmed that after all. 

_ If James Moriarty had come looking like that at the pool meeting, Sherlock himself would have been ready to vouch that the man was just a brainwashed hostage used as a mouthpiece by some invisible mastermind without as much as a second thought.  _

Jim hadn't though, and now he understood that it had been mainly because the criminal wanted someone to see him,  _ truly  _ see him, because he yearned for someone to glance in the abyss of his eyes and  _ know.  _

"How old were you when you last wore this? " Jim asked without waiting for an answer to his previous question, his complete attention focused on Sherlock. 

It wasn't like an answer was needed anyway, the detective knew the way he had stared had betrayed him. 

"16."

The spider wearing his Christmas sweater hummed, his expression wistful as if he was dancing along the strands of his web, trying to imagine a 16-year-old Sherlock Holmes-

_ Or recalling what he had looked like, Jim had said he had kept an eye on him after all.  _

"You were quite a late bloomer. "

The statement didn't prompt for an answer so Sherlock didn't give one, merely nodding noncommittally as he observed the other. 

He wore the sweater better than Sherlock had, he had been too gangly as a teen, too tall and thin to truly fit the clothing as Jim did. Maybe his mother had known who would end up wearing it in the end, he wouldn't be that surprised if that was the case. 

"I want a hot chocolate. " the criminal suddenly said, crossing his arms in front of his puffed out chest, his fingers deliberately brushing over the knit snowflakes of his sleeves. 

_ Defensive?  _

_ No, the position was loose, relaxed, his gaze confident…  _

_ A test then, a challenge, a  _ dare _.  _

"You're welcome to make yourself one, you already know my skills do not lie in the kitchen." Sherlock drawled, watching the reaction his words would get. 

Jim grinned, bright, almost innocent, and before Sherlock had the time to process it, the man had stepped forwards, one, twice, entering his personal space to purr into his ear. 

"If I make some, I insist you have one too… But be prepared, I like my drinks strong. " 

His breath caressed Sherlock's cheeks and he moved away barely, just enough to see the widening of Sherlock's eyes and the breath he missed, before twirling on his feet, a sharklike smirk on his lips, a skip to his steps. 

Like last time, the detective followed Jim as he entered the kitchen confidently, watching him take out the chocolate, the milk, the cream… 

"Jameson? " Sherlock couldn't help but ask when he saw the label on the bottle of whiskey, his amusement seeping into his voice. 

Jim merely chuckled, focusing on the melting chocolate and on the way it mixed with the milk. 

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, he divided the beverage into two cups and added the whiskey. 

A  _ lot  _ of whiskey. 

"Are you sure you have the good ratio? "

The criminal rolled his eyes and continued to pour the alcohol until the mugs were full before adding the whipped cream. 

"Of course I am, here. " he said, holding out the drink. Sherlock said nothing and accepted it. 

They went back to the living room and sat back, facing each other, Jim sprawling into Sherlock's favourite seat before the detective could say anything, flashing him a triumphant grin before donning yet another mask and batting his eyelashes coyly. 

"So, did you figure out why I came here yet? "

Immediately, Sherlock's eyes sharpened, his fingers tightening their grip around his mug. 

He hadn't, he still couldn't see why his nemesis would visit him on Christmas Eve when he obviously wasn't at his best, why he would bother finding out what he liked, why he would even answer his questions. 

Getting information out of Mycroft, that he could understand. Moriarty must have a plan, one that required the truth, possibly to make a lie appear real as well, but that still didn't explain the meal, didn't explain why he would insist on it  _ 'not being business' _ , didn't explain  _ anything _ . 

_ His favourite dishes were hardly something that a reporter would ask out of anyone that wasn't him after all.  _

He frowned and Jim chuckled, his posture languid, indolent. It had to be on purpose, surely, there was no way a man could look so languorous while simply lounging in a chair.

"Aww, don't look at me like that honey, is it that hard to admit that you don't know something? 

_ 'Lean back, a smirk, a sip of chocolate _ .  _ '  _

"I don't know. "

Jim's confidence on his hot chocolate-making skills certainly hadn't been faked at least, the drink was just sweet enough and pleasantly warm in his throat, the alcohol coating his mouth, agreeably slowing the whirlwind of his mind. 

"That's clever, very clever,  _ awfully  _ clever. " the criminal admitted, his dark eyes filled with what Sherlock interpreted as amusement. 

For a few seconds, they both fell quiet, instants of silence before Jim spoke again. 

"I had a plan initially you know? A plan to burn you, a plan to make you  _ fall  _ . " and there was something so cold in his voice, so empty in his stare, that Sherlock had to fight down a shudder knowing the other would notice it…

Maybe he wouldn't have seen it anyway, Jim seemed so far away right now, gone somewhere no man could hope to reach - _ 'no one ever gets to me, and no one ever will' echoed in his mind,  _ the void filling the black of his irises, but then he glanced at his sweater, blinked, and his expression gained a hint of warmth. 

"I don't think I like it that much anymore though."

Sherlock froze, unable to hide the slight widening of his eyes. 

Of all things, he hadn't expected this kind of admission. 

"It would have been easy anyway,  _ too  _ easy, no challenge at all. "

_ Boring,  _ they both knew he meant. 

Jim looked almost sad at the admission for a second, but the next the expression was all but gone, replaced by a hungry look and a sharp smile. 

"But now I think I found something better to do." 

And in a second, he was out of his chair and on Sherlock's lap, their faces separated by a breath. He looked like he might kiss him for a brief moment, like he might devour him and consume his heart as a mignardise, like he was a starving child and Sherlock a candy cane. 

He didn't though, he smiled sweetly, tilted his head and licked his lips. 

"So Sherly, won't you convince me to let you live and steal the Crown Jewels with me? "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all liked this chapter :)


	4. Worship the crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got longer and longer as I wrote it oops

Sherlock snorted and tried sinking further into his seat, hoping to somehow escape the other's touch. 

"You're drunk. "

Slightly flushed cheeks, Jim's smile turning into a manic parody of its initial self, but his eyes, his  _ eyes,  _ they were just as cold and empty as they had been in the pool. 

It was painfully obvious that the criminal was still completely in control of himself, even if he certainly wasn't sober anymore, not after half a bottle of wine and the delicious monstrosity he called hot chocolate… Sherlock had to admit that Jim had a higher tolerance to the drink than he did, he wasn't drunk either but he could feel the excitement trying to veil his mind, the euphoria and liquid self-confidence taking control of his senses. 

_ Curse his useless brain, he should never have drunk alcohol in front of James Moriarty in the first place! Mycroft would laugh at his stupidity- after berating him of course, his brother would have never let his guards down like that… Or maybe he would have, but after all of the embassy parties he had attended, he was sure the older had quite the resistance.  _

"We both know that's not true. " Jim continued to straddle Sherlock's lap, unblinking, unnerving. 

_ And they both knew this hadn't been a 'no'. _

"Why do you want the jewels anyway? " 

_ 'Still not a no darling'  _ the Jim in his mind palace crooned, playing idly with the skull in the replica of his living room, sitting in his chair like a King in his throne  _ 'But you won't refuse, will you? You know that if you refuse I'll leave, and you don't want that… ' _

The real criminal appeared as amused by the question as his imaginary counterpart had been, his fingers drumming some silent melody only he could hear on the armrests. There was probably an entire orchestra in Jim Moriarty's head, an ensemble that always played along with the symphony of his thoughts. 

"I don't want them for anything, I want the  _ statement _ . " he grinned again, like the devil smiled before holding out his hand when he knew the deal had already been struck, barely sweet and far too sharp "And admit it, I would look good in a crown. "

Sherlock admitted it, and immediately pushed the thought away. 

_ The Jim in his mind laughed, the skull forgotten in favour of a too familiar sceptre, a crimson cape like a fall of blood over his shoulders, and Sherlock couldn't help but think that this was the laugh of a man who owned the world and knew he would soon own his mind as well.  _

The criminal was back it seemed, he had acted almost nice for the whole night, harmless, until Sherlock had almost wanted to punch him just to see the man beneath the mask, just to feel the honed edges cut his fists, but now all the fast wits and adrenaline-inducing games had returned now. 

Maybe this had all been a set-up, make him comfortable, make him  _ drink _ , and wait for him to be more pliant to finally start his new plot… 

_ 'It's not business _ . ' Jim had implied earlier, and he was still tempted to believe him. 

_ Not business _ didn't mean he wouldn't harm him though. 

"It won't be left unguarded, even in the middle of the night. " Sherlock commented slowly. 

And he didn't need to listen to the man in his mind palace to know he still hadn't outwardly refused. 

"Well, of course doofus. " Jim rolled his eyes "But I just told you I had things planned out already, you should be glad I'm even offering this outing at all, I'm revamping the schemes meant to destroy you! "

_ To remove the temptation to use them?  _

Jim's features shifted again, his brows furrowing, his lower lip sticking out, an exaggerated pout this time, the expression making him look like a child dissatisfied with his last present. 

"I'm not planning on finishing my Christmas Eve in  _ jail _ , thank you. "

Jim took out his phone, waving the screen too close to Sherlock's face. 

"It's Christmas now, you weren't in prison yesterday, were you? " Jim asked with a toothy grin. "And besides, don't you trust me? "

If the criminal hadn't still been perched above his knees, Sherlock would have laughed to his face. 

"Absolutely not. "

' _ As far as I can throw you. '  _ he almost said instead, but after studying martial arts for years, he knew that it wouldn't actually be that hard to toss the man a few feets away, and the translated trust would be far higher than whatever faith he had in Jim's will to not end up in jail. 

"Great, I would have been disappointed if you did. " his eyes sharpened and he leaned towards his trapped victim, cutting whatever exit Sherlock might have found " Are you really going to refuse though? I thought you would have the guts, especially since it would make Big Brother have a fit… " and he looked almost disappointed for a second, but then it was gone and his eyes were cold, so so  _ cold _ . 

Jim called Mycroft the Ice Man but the moniker would fit him just as well when he stared like that, inexpressive and inscrutable. 

"Alright, I'll come. " Sherlock finally said, feeling like he had just sold his soul away. 

_ The grin he received for his trouble was worth it.  _

"I knew you'd see my way Sherly~"

And with that something that was more a purr than anything else, Jim fell silent, taking out his phone and quickly started to type on his phone, his fingers practically flying over the screen before hitting  _ 'send' _

"Put on your cloak and your scarf darling, we're leaving! "

_ Already?  _

In a second, Jim had elegantly leapt off the chair, finally letting Sherlock move as he pleased, releasing him from his proverbial web only to catch him with a dizzying grin. 

He was rocking up and down on the balls of his feet now, his hands shoved in his pocket as the man seemed animated by some kind of manic energy, unable to stay still. Usually, Sherlock had no doubt that he would just stand immobile and gaze around him levelly, eyes blank and unreadable, daring the world to oppose him, so maybe  _ he  _ wasn't the only one affected by the alcohol… 

Following Jim's instructions, he put on his Belstaff and tried to ignore the criminal's attention as he tied his scarf. That was a lot harder said than done. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ he was ready and Jim's hand found its way in his, their fingers intertwining as he was dragged towards the door and down the stairs. 

James Moriarty's fingers were surprisingly warm and soft for a man that wasn't supposed to exist-

_ Sherlock mapped the back of Jim's hand with his fingertips and filed away the information.  _

Would the criminal have kicked open his door had he been alone? Probably if the way his foot had started to rise before falling back down was any indication, but Jim held himself back, fiddling with the lock for a second before managing to open it. 

There was already a car waiting right in front of 221b, a sleek thing with tinted windows and a panel between the back seats and the driver. 

Jim opened the truck and started searching, pushing away what Sherlock recognised as clothes, a  _ lot  _ of clothes, to grab a black coat and a fuzzy burgundy scarf. 

"You hardly needed me to give you my sweater. " he remarked, glancing at the various shirts arranged in outfits, but they didn't particularly look like anything the man might enjoy wearing though, disguises then, except for the coat. 

Jim crossed his arms in front of his chest, radiating offence with his posture even as his expression betrayed his amusement. 

"You said it was my Christmas gift, I'm not giving it back. " he tilted his head to the side, grinned "Besides, I actually like it-"  _ he did?  _ "-it's mine now. "

Exaggerating his annoyance, Sherlock shook his head, muttering his next words. 

"Brat. " 

Jim laughed, quick and sharp, before grabbing his hand again and dragging him into the car, tapping once on the window separating them from the driver before turning back to Sherlock, waiting, anticipating. 

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock asked just what the criminal wanted him to. 

"Alright, what's your plan then? "

"What makes you think I have one?" Jim smirked, leaning back into the leather. 

"You said you did. "

Jim stretched his neck, the movement reptilian and familiar. 

"Maybe I lied, didn't you think of that? "

"But you did not. " 

_ Not to me _ . 

Jim nodded, hearing the underlying meaning. 

"Not to you. "

They had already reached the Thames, Sherlock noted, he had hardly noticed it when the car had started a few minutes ago… The criminal didn't seem intent on telling him what they would do, maybe to keep the surprise, maybe to keep the  _ thrill,  _ he didn't care much for the reason as it didn't change the reality of the situation. 

He was actually going to the Tower of London to steal the crown jewels with James Moriarty-

Well, not really  _ steal  _ anyway, the other hadn't said it in so many words but he had implied he would just prove the world that he could steal them, take a picture or two, leave a message and grin at the CCTV cameras once they were back in the streets. 

In the end, it was just another game, a little distraction Jim offered him… 

_ One that had originally been meant to destroy him.  _

Sherlock froze, not knowing how he should feel about that. 

On one hand, he was glad to know Jim had apparently decided to let him live for now, but did that mean that he thought Sherlock too boring to play with? Not interesting enough to deserve his time in the long run? 

Did that mean he had gotten weary of their games? 

If that was the case, if Jim didn't think he was worth the fall then-

_ 'Then what? '  _ the lilting voice echoed in his mind. The criminal wasn't in his chair anymore, wasn't wearing his crown either, he was at the window, watching Baker Street with a distant gaze like he could see London behind the walls, the world hidden by the buildings.  _ 'The game will stop, you'll be safe, your friend will be safe, and I'll be gone.' _

From his life perhaps, but not from his mind. 

Jim's hand on his shoulder brought him back to reality with a start. 

"Are you really sulking because I'm not telling you the plan? " he asked, annoyance and displeasure tinging his words. 

Sherlock shook his head, because no,  _ of course not _ , he couldn't care less about the plan right now, but he didn't want to explain himself either, and so he stayed silent, staring through his window. 

The London Bridge was just ahead, they were right next to their destination and the Shard's cranes were towering them from the other side of the Thames. 

Finally, the car stopped without him needing to say another word and they both got out somewhere close to the battlements, Jim humming softly. 

"I take it we're not using the main entrance. " Sherlock asked, following the smaller man as he made his way to an unassuming door on the rampart a bit farther, taking out a key he had grabbed along with his coat to open it. 

"Nah, as much as it would be quite nice to open the gates just for the two of us, I'm afraid it would be far too easily noticeable. "

The street was silent for now, simply because it was the middle of the night, but it was still in the centre of London, someone could pass by at any time and wonder why the gates were wide open… maybe they wouldn't call the police, maybe they would, it depended on the person, their alcohol consumption, and a number of other factors, but Jim was hardly a careless man. 

"Why is no one guarding this place? I thought it would be teeming with security officers. " Sherlock drawled, looking around the new street they had reached after passing through the ramparts, examining the old buildings and the cobbled road. 

"Willing accomplices my dear, willing accomplices… They all spiked their tea or whatever drink they had with themselves at the time to make it look like they had an alibi. "

Jim grinned, skipping and whirling along the pavement, eyes closed as if in his mind he was somewhere else entirely, still humming the same tune. 

_ Rossini, La Gazza Ladra, the Thieving Magpie… Fitting.  _

Maybe he should dance too, he would feel less cold. 

Sherlock's eyes fell on Jim's hand, on the fingers he had touched just a few minutes earlier, and he could remember just how soft they had been, how  _ warm- _

"Is the 'I'm your Christmas present ' thing still standing? " Sherlock suddenly asked, intent on focusing away from Jim's hand lest he lost the control of his impulses and grabbed it. 

_ Can I still ask questions? Will you answer them?  _

Laughter, a twirl. 

"Of course, it  _ is  _ Christmas after all. "

"Anything? " Sherlock insisted, watching Jim still, his eyes sharpening, focusing. 

"Of course. " he purred, still a few feet in front of him. 

"Will you tell me about Carl Powers? " Sherlock asked slowly, carefully, finally catching up to Jim when the other man stopped in his tracks. 

_ 'What about him?'  _ He seemed ready to spit for a second, but Sherlock had asked,  _ Sherlock _ wanted to  _ know,  _ and so Jim spoke. 

He spoke quickly of his childhood- two words in total,  _ dull  _ and  _ insipid,  _ of Ireland and his first,  _ perfect,  _ crime, of the way Carl had laughed at him for being always alone and how he had looked when he had died, blue and fragile, he spoke of the dizzying rush of adrenaline, of the people crying in the pool and of the echoes of their screams against the glazed earthenware as they watched the lifeguard uselessly try to wake the boy. 

_ " _ It was necromancy at this point." Jim giggled, eyes dark and faraway, spinning on his heels as he spun his tale. "Pointless attempt to bring the dead back to life. " he kicked a rock, idly following its course "Not that it helped, he was already gone by the time they took him out of the pool, and no amount of mouth to mouth would have saved him. " his grin was a strange thing, sharp yet somehow  _ bitter.  _ Sherlock couldn't understand why. "In the end, it was so easy, so  _ simple,  _ no one suspected a thing you know? "

Oh. 

Not bitter,  _ disappointed.  _

Had this been the first time Jim had truly realised just how special, how unique he was? 

The man snorted as if he had read his thoughts, and maybe he had, who knew with Moriarty. 

"Don't look at me like that, of course I already knew it wouldn't be hard, but I expected some kind of investigation at least, a bit of resistance, a  _ thrill.  _ They didn't even question it, they looked at the pretty clues I had left for them to find and jumped at the first conclusion,  _ just like I had wanted them to. " _

And that was the thing with Jim, wasn't it? He didn't want to win, not really, winning was easy, boring, no no no, he wanted to  _ play.  _ He didn't care whether Sherlock was in the way of his business or not, whether the detective made him lose millions and clients alike, he just wanted someone to understand the game as he did.  Mycroft must have seen it too, there was no way he had missed it, but Mycroft, as smart as he was, did not play when England's future was at stake, he just got closed off, cold,  _ icy,  _ and threw the game pieces off the table. 

_ Boring.  _

"But then-" Jim started, eyes wide and unfocused, almost feverish in their intensity "-then you showed up from nowhere, screaming about the shoes to anyone who would listen, claiming,  _ insisting,  _ that little Carl's death had been a murder when all of the ordinary people wanted to believe the opposite… " he seemed to come back to reality, his gaze falling upon Sherlock, a thin smile playing on his lips, as if wondering whether it should stay or not "I told you already that this was when I got interested in you, it wasn't a lie."

Jim didn't ask for anything in exchange for the information, he continued to walk through the streets of timbered houses, the silence only broken by the squeaking of their leather shoes on the cobblestone roads. 

Maybe he was trying to tip back the scales in a way, now that he knew everything there was to know about the detective, make Sherlock see him like Jim had seen Sherlock…

And it made him angry, so  _ angry _ that he wasn't the one who got to tell his own life story to the other, wasn't the one who traded one tale for another, wasn't the one who watched carefully how the criminal reacted to the new knowledge. He wasn't furious at Jim though, the man had already paid dearly to obtain that information-  _ Sherlock didn't doubt Jim had known exactly what he was doing when he had let himself get caught, but the lingering tension in his neck, vestige of the torture, spoke more than his words did -  _ but at Mycroft. 

Mycroft who had ignored his request to stay out of it, Mycroft who hadn't even told him what he had done, knowing the criminal might go after him for his revenge,  _ Mycroft _ who had shared his life story  _ like it had been his to give _ . 

Maybe he should pay him a little visit in a few days, they had quite a lot to talk about. 

During the time he took to collect his thoughts, they had arrived in front of the building sheltering the jewels, a mere door and a flight of stairs separating them from their goal. Jim casually took a blank magnetic card out of his pocket, flashed it in front of a sensor and smirked when the door unlocked, pulling it open for Sherlock. 

_ They were doing this.  _

The two consultants made their way through the old building, their way lit up by the blue glow of Jim's phone until finally, they were in front of the exhibit.  For an instant, they stood still, completely immobile as if they didn't quite know what to do now that they were there, but then the criminal smiled, stretched his neck until the tension popped away, and then  _ danced.  _

Jim danced, his arms held high, his back arched, his head thrown back, he danced like he needed the movements to live, like a stop in his steps might resonate through his being and echo in his heart, he danced like faes danced to lure children in their forests and in that moment, Sherlock would have followed him anywhere. He was breath-taking this way, something more than human forced into a form too small to fit, a deity squeezed in a mortal vessel, he twirled between the shadows and the lights, following the music only he could hear. 

Jim whirled again, one last time, his face warped with exaltation, and then he smoothly entered a key at the base of the glass panel and watched it open with pleased eyes, the motor whirring softly. 

"I wouldn't have done it this way you know? " Jim whispered, watching the jewels just lying there, waiting for a hand to grasp them "Everything would have been different, this is certainly elegant but it would have been  _ splendid.  _ "

"What were you going to do? "

"Close your eyes. " Sherlock instinctively obeyed, letting the lilting voice guide his imagination "I come during the day, a normal day like any other when the place would have been brimming with tourists. I am one of them, beige vest, cap, earphones, absolutely uninteresting. " it was easy to visualize, the criminal seamlessly disappearing inside the crowd, looking at the exhibits with a vaguely interested expression "I'm in this very room now, no one stopped me-" no one  _ thought  _ to stop him "-I take out my phone, send a signal and suddenly the alarm is ringing, another one and the vault in the bank of England are opening on their own-"

"What signal? "

"Shhhhh. " there was a finger in front of his mouth now, hovering a breath away from his lips, and Sherlock froze, standing entirely still even as the finger left, Jim's voice getting farther away"A guard tries to make me leave but I knock him out with a little concoction of mine, then I take out a pen and write 'Get Sherlock' on the glass protecting the jewels. "  _ Get Sherlock? What a silly thing to write when he had him right here  _ "I send yet another message, and this time the cells in the prison of Pentonville open. Next, I stick my gum on the glass, take out my diamond-"  _ Who walks around with a diamond in their pocket? James Moriarty apparently  _ "-glue it with the gum and grabs a fire extinguisher to break the protection. " the rustling of a fabric, the sound of a movement in front of him "And so when the police finally arrive with your little DI friend in tow, I am waiting just. like. that." Jim finished, punctuating every word with a tap of his foot "Open your eyes. "

Sherlock did. 

A few words immediately came to his mind, brilliant, gorgeous, elegant, beautiful, all words he had used before to describe Jim's schemes, all thrown aside in favour of something else-

"Sublime. " Sherlock breathed out, not entirely sure whether he was speaking about the plan laid in front of him or about the criminal sprawling on his throne, the crown carefully balanced on his head, the sceptre twirling in his hands. 

The cape, white ermine and crimson silk, fell elegantly over Jim's shoulders. The colour went quite well with the burgundy of his sweater, and the whole picture was tiptoeing on the line between strange and enthralling…

Alright, that was a lie, the second won by a landslide. 

Sherlock stepped once, twice, walked slowly until he was right in front of the other. 

_ 'No rush.' _ his grin seemed to say, but his eyes, oh his  _ eyes _ , they were so dark, so hungry, Sherlock was surprised he hadn't been swallowed whole yet. 

_ Surprised sounded better than disappointed after all.  _

Just like when Jim had been straddling him, the man looked one second away from kissing him, one breath away even, his gaze flickering between Sherlock's eyes and his lips, but he wouldn't move though, as much as he wanted to he wouldn't, and so it was Sherlock who made the first move, Sherlock who closed the distance, Sherlock who looked into the abyss and willingly jumped into the void. 

Sherlock Holmes leaned against the throne, bent the knee and kissed the King. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all are still liking this! :)


	5. Take the fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their eyes met, fragments of the sky melting in shards of the abyss, their mind linked by the contact, bound by the touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did this get so long aaaaaaaaaah-  
> Sherlock and Jim went brrrrr on their own

His first thought was that Jim's lips were quite soft and still tasted of chocolate with an undertone of whiskey. 

His second, almost immediate, was that Jim was quite enthusiastically kissing back, his sceptre having slipped out of his fingers as his hands gripped the lapels of Sherlock's coat. 

_Well, he certainly wasn't going to stop now._

At first, Sherlock found himself out of his depth, not knowing exactly what to do as this was so different from anything he had tried before, but there was Jim's tongue at the junction of his lips, lingering, asking for entry, and he opened mouth in answer, doing his best to mirror the other's movements. Teeth sank into his lower lips as the criminal tried to bring him closer still and Sherlock gasped softly from the mix of pain and pleasure, choking on the moan that had threatened to leave his mouth. 

Their eyes met, fragments of the sky melting in shards of the abyss, their mind linked by the contact, bound by the touch. It was too much, all at once, like Jim's lips would burn him alive. Sherlock was holding a dying star and its collapse would bring him down alongside the rest of the universe, abominable and glorious at the same time, he was cradling the void itself and the oblivion was swallowing whole. London could burn around them and all he would care for was the way the flames were reflected in those bottomless eyes. 

Sherlock wasn't much of a kisser. 

That statement was something he had always believed about himself, something he had taken for granted, a simple reality that defined him as the fact that he was 6 feet tall and had curly hair. It just _was._

He had done a few experiments in high-school, had tried again once in uni to see if things had changed- _they hadn't, that first girl had been far too soft and the few boys after that disgustingly sloppy,_ then just filled the information in a room of his mind palace and called it a day…

But this was completely different. 

Kissing James Moriarty hardly felt like kissing, it was a constant confrontation, the flash of teeth against his lips, the hand tightening his scarf until he could barely breathe, it was a whiff of danger, the smirk against his mouth, the fingers pulling his hair, the barely shrouded threat in the dark gaze. 

They were at war and their lips a battleground. 

Sherlock pulled away, ignoring the pang of yearning that immediately bloomed inside his chest, thorny blossoms leaving bloody gashes in his lungs. He breathed, _in, out_ , hoping that it would somehow stop his heart from hammering against his ribcage like an Agapornis, a lovebird looking for its mate, but seeing Jim's face only seemed to make it worse. 

Red lips, slightly swollen from the kiss, flushed cheeks and pupils so dilated they made his eyes blacker than the void...

He looked _tantalizing._

One second Sherlock was staring, eyes dark and veiled with desire, the next Jim's fingers were painfully digging into his scalp and he was brought back towards the other, their lips aggressively pressed together in a rough, biting kiss. 

They couldn't stop, they couldn't let go - _not so soon, maybe not ever_ , they were bound on so many planes that they couldn't even begin to disentangle themselves. Objectively speaking, Sherlock knew that it wasn't possible for their minds to form one, for their thoughts to mingle, for their two souls to be so intertwined that he couldn't even distinguish his limbs from Jim's, but objectivity didn't mean anything right now. 

Maybe it was all on his head, but what wasn't? Humans were just brains driving around in a suit of blood and bones, so why couldn't this be reality? 

It was real to him, and that was what mattered. 

"You took your time. " Jim somehow managed to gasp between two kisses, breathing shallowly against his neck. 

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how he managed to pull away enough to observe the other, but when he did, his eyes flickered over the criminal's face, taking it all in. 

The ermine coat was barely holding on, covering only one of his shoulders now, the crown was about to fall, and Jim's lips were even redder than they had been before, tiny droplets of blood gathering in the small cuts Sherlock's teeth had left…

A quick inspection with his tongue made him realise the gashes were mirrored on his own lips. 

"I didn't realise you were interested. " Sherlock replied, smirking with mock haughtiness. 

Jim's eyes flashed strangely, the darkness alight with something cruel and macabre before that eerie flame was snuffed out by amusement. 

"Really?" He grinned just a bit too much, just a bit too sharp, blood still tinting his pearly white teeth "And yet I thought I had made my _interest_ quite clear, just as you made it apparent that it wasn't reciprocated" 

_What was he talking about-_

Sherlock frowned, his mind flying over all the things he had done, all the things he had done, _everything_ , to understand just what could have made the other genius assume something like that-

_Oh._

Did he believe that Sherlock had been aware of what Mycroft was doing? 

It hadn't even occurred to him that Jim would think something like that, but it was true that his lack of reaction and his near fascination with the scars could be easily misinterpreted. 

They were similar the two of them, so identical that it was easy to forget that they still had minute differences… Like the way they dealt with Mycroft for example. 

Jim was used to opposing the government all the time, to seeing Big Brother's shadow at every turn, at this point they had been playing this game of chess for years- _Jim played, Mycroft frigidly went along because a bored Moriarty was worse than an amused one._

The criminal knew to look for his involvement as soon as someone managed to somewhat oppose him. 

Sherlock was the opposite, he ran from his brother's cases, purposely fled his reach and did everything to ignore Mycroft when he couldn't avoid him. His very mind followed the same behaviours, and so when Moriarty had seemed to vanish, he had caught a whiff of Mycroft's involvement and stopped his investigation there. 

_It wasn't like the criminal could really be hurt anyway,_ Sherlock had thought. 

But _'I wasn't aware of my brother's actions. '_ sounded like a pitiful excuse, even to his ears, so didn't voice the words and bend forward instead, kissing Jim again. 

It was sweet this time, soft, their lips moving slowly against each other's, and they both knew it was the closest thing to an apology he would give. 

Jim answered the kiss slowly, his fingers no longer pulling Sherlock's hair but merely holding him there, his body warm and pliant against Sherlock's chest. It was surprisingly _gentle_ in a way. His eyes were closed, dark eyelashes shielding the world from their unfathomable depths, and his lips tasted of desperation. 

Sherlock didn't mind, he was desperate too. 

_What did Jim see behind those eyelids? Just where was he right now?_

Jim's eyes finally opened and the questions died on his lips, his breath choking on their remains. 

_This must be hell_ , Sherlock decided, _because only the devil would have the idea to make James Moriarty look so reverent, so alive with unabridged idolatry._

If he forgot how to breathe for a few seconds, no one mentioned it. 

They stayed in the same position for what seemed to be an eternity but couldn't have been more than a minute, foreheads touching, gaze meeting through fluttering lashes, Sherlock still on his knees next to the throne, as if worshipping his monarch, Jim still with his hands still tangled in his curls, gasping against his lips. 

He didn't want this moment to ever end, he could have stayed like this until the end of times and he wouldn't even have noticed the universe crumbling around them… 

Then the bubble popped, their little world shattered and the moment was over. 

Sherlock's eyes fell on the cameras before looking at Jim's face just in time to see a grin slowly twist his reddened lips. 

"Don't worry about those my dear, no one can see what they saw…" the smile broadened "Except me, of course." he added, tapping the screen of his phone with a manicured nail. 

"What will you do with the recordings? "

"Why, do you want them? "

_Yes._

"I'm just curious. " he said instead, evading the question. 

Jim's eyes glinted knowingly but he didn't mention the deflection, adopting a perfect parody of Sherlock's pose when he was deep in thought. 

"Hmm… Who knows… Maybe I just want a nice video to get off to? Maybe I'll give it to the BBC? Maybe I'll screenshot the best moments and send the pictures to Big Brother?"

Mycroft's face when he would see his baby brother snogging the consulting criminal like a lustful teen would certainly be priceless… 

"Well, I guess that sounds somewhat satisfactory. " Sherlock drawled, elongating the words as if he still wasn't fully convinced. 

"Aww don't worry darling, you'll get a copy too, pinky swear. "

The criminal grinned before sticking out his little finger, waiting-

Sherlock chuckled and linked their two fingers enjoying the small skin to skin contact. 

"Now what? " he asked after a few seconds, standing up. 

Jim got back to his feet, bending smoothly to grab the fallen sceptre while holding the crown on his head with his other hand. 

"Now we leave a nice little message and get out of here. "

The next moment, Jim was placing his trophies on the ground, carefully laying them in position before taking out a piece of chalk from his coat and drawing a body's outline, the white lines creating the silhouette of a man wearing the jewels, sprawled on the ground with the cape on his shoulder. 

"The King is dead, long live the King? " Sherlock asked, peering at the little exhibit. 

Jim grinned, teeth sharp and white, eyes filled with dark glee, the man obviously pleased with his handiwork. 

"Just so~"

He stepped back, examining the hints of the departed monarch critically, before taking out a business card and throwing it on the now empty throne. At first, Sherlock thought it was completely blank, but then he saw it, the small, etched M in the right-hand corner, alone and almost invisible in the void. 

"Not very elaborate. " he noted idly, a bit surprised when Jim nodded in response. 

"Hardly noticeable right? "

There was something strange in his voice, an eerie inflexion, the words trailing off for just a bit too much...

And Sherlock _understood_. 

Of course, Jim wasn't going to leave a flashy card, wasn't going to write his name on the glass or make an ostentatious show in front of the cameras… People didn't go to Moriarty for something flamboyant after all, they just wanted their problem dealt with, quickly and quietly, and so his business card echoed his work. 

_Still…_

"Everyone would have noticed it with your original plan, noticed _you._ " Sherlock didn't need a mirror to know that his eyes had just sharpened into slits, his full focus on the other, on that enigma laid at his feet "You wanted the attention. " Jim nodded "You wanted to get arrested. " another nod, Sherlock felt himself frown, felt the sheer puzzlement overtake his features " _Why? "_

With how dramatic his outline had sounded, he would have certainly made the headlines for days, and that generally wasn't a good thing when someone was as secretive as James Moriarty was… 

For God's sake, he had blown up that old lady for saying his voice was _soft,_ yet he had been ready to throw it all away a few months later? And for what? What could he possibly have gained-

_Oh._

It was about winning again, wasn't it? Except that this time he wasn't planning on playing afterwards, and that explained everything: why would Jim care if everyone knew just who he was if he was dead? 

"I wanted to solve our problem Sherlock, our final problem. " Jim said, dead eyes, dead smile, dead dead _dead,_ just like he was supposed to be at the end of his game. _Their_ game. 

And he had apparently dropped the plan altogether- the plan to burn his heart, the plan to _burn himself,_ but could it really be stopped now? 

Jim had been a nobody for years, effortlessly slipping between Mycroft's fingers, yet he had let multiple people see him and live, he had let Sherlock's brother catch him and torture him in the government's deepest cell. 

"I think I found a better way to solve it though. "

_I think we don't need to die,_ Sherlock heard, because as Jim's death wish was evident in his previous plan, the fact that he would have brought Sherlock along with his fall was just as painfully clear. If James Moriarty died, he would probably like to do so at his greatest opponent's side. 

_Sherlock couldn't resent him, he didn't want to die but if he had to, that sounded like the best way to go._

Before he could try to force the words out of his mouth, the burning questions on the tip of his tongue, Jim was turning around, turning away. 

"We better head out before the security guards wake up and give the alarm. "

"Wait-"

Sherlock immediately regretted his outburst, but the apathy permeating the other's very being had seemed so strong, his eyes so empty… He had looked so hollow suddenly, and so different from the man he had been kissing a few minutes earlier that Sherlock needed _something_ to prove himself he hadn't dreamed the entire thing. 

Jim spun, facing him with curiosity lighting up his features, and that little spark was enough. 

"I'm glad you changed your mind, I think I wouldn't have enjoyed your first plan nearly as much."

The initial reaction he received was a snort of laughter, the other obviously amused by his words even as the knowing glint in his eyes told Sherlock that he had understood just what it meant. 

From Sherlock Holmes, the admission was almost akin to a confession. 

"And I don't regret coming here dear. " Jim smiled, something almost gentle in the expression, almost soft, before he turned around once more and started racing down the stairs, not waiting for his companion. 

Sherlock felt light-headed suddenly, like he was floating in tar, the floor swimming beneath his feet, he felt like he had just plunged a syringe of heroin in his veins and pushed the liquid in his bloodstream. His first thought was that the alcohol was finally catching up to him, but no, _no,_ it wasn't caused by the whiskey, the wine or anything he might have drunk, this was all _Jim_. 

_He really was a mess, wasn't he?_ He thought bitterly, passing his hand through his hair, unconsciously mirroring the path Jim's fingers had taken earlier. 

This was dangerous, more than that even if the mere hint of tenderness in the other's expression had been enough to send his brain reeling back…

Jim must have done it on purpose, he concluded, the criminal had known exactly what he was doing, had donned another pretty mask and then skipped away, tasting victory on his lips. 

_Then why did his departure feel like a retreat?_

Maybe Sherlock wasn't the only one tumbling down heaven after all, maybe he wasn't the only one diving head-first into the unknown. 

Maybe they shared a fall like they had been meant to share a pyre. 

He quietly went down the stairs, convincing himself that his slow movements were to leave no traces of his presence and not because he needed more time to determine how he should act with Jim. 

When he finally left the building, Sherlock idly noted that it had started snowing, big snowflakes drifting down the night sky and ending up on their clothes, on their faces, white fragments of the sky contrasting with their dark hair. 

Jim had been waiting with his head facing the cosmos, his tongue stuck out, attempting to catch one. He raised his arm high as he heard his companion arrive, greeting the clouds, and whirled in the streets, turning back to him with an expression of triumph as the snow melted in his mouth. 

"Come on Sherly, the world is our oyster!" The criminal exclaimed with a grin, his cheeks pink from the cold. 

His puzzlement must have been clear on his face because Jim stared at him in disbelief for a second before adding :

"Shakespeare? Come on Sherlock, even if you don't know the play you must have heard the saying at some point." he drawled, obviously waiting for him to nod and 'aaaaaah' of realisation. 

Sherlock merely arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. He hadn't, in fact, heard the saying, or maybe he had just deleted it afterwards because of how nonsensical it sounded. 

"I _am_ going to take you out if you keep missing my references you know, and I'm afraid whether it's for a night out or with a gun will depend on my mood. " Jim muttered, shaking his head. 

His threat only made Sherlock grin, then chuckle, small, misty clouds leaving his lips with the laughter. He should have brought gloves, he thought, glancing at his quickly reddening fingers, the brisk air tingling their extremities, he could just shove his hands into his pockets of course, but maybe-

Almost involuntary, Sherlock found himself reaching for the criminal's hands, intertwining their fingers in an effort to create some warmth, something burning brightly in his chest when the criminal didn't move away but instead tightened his grip. 

"Really? Hmm, I wonder if there's a way to improve said mood… "

Sherlock wondered for a second if his words had been too direct after whatever had happened earlier in the crown jewels' room, but Jim laughed, high and delighted. 

"Dance with me Sherlock. " he commanded more than he asked, his hand already tugging the detective along, spinning on his heels and forcing Sherlock to follow. 

"We don't have any music, and with the shoes we're currently wearing, we'll slip on the black ice."

They both knew the protest was weak at best though, and a second later, Sherlock found himself swirling in the streets, trying to piece back his knowledge of the Viennese Waltz Jim had started. It was ridiculous of course, they were both a bit too inhibited to be completely coordinated and they kept running into each other, switching who led and then forgetting they were supposed to follow, their skills barely preventing them from falling...

They danced through the streets, something that could hardly be called a dance at all, they ran and they twirled and they giggled like drunk college kids on a night out. 

Then Jim dipped him low, chests pressed together, laughing as he made Sherlock flail for an instant before his arms snaked around Jim's neck. They looked at each other, two figurines in a snowglobe, then they both closed the distance in the same movement and pressed their lips together again. This time the kiss was neither sweet nor aggressive though, it was an exploration, a game, a tongue darting into the other's mouth just to taste amusement and chocolate. 

Sherlock grinned against Jim's lips, and changed their position, shifting the balance, swallowing the yelp of surprise the criminal let out when their situations were reversed. A second later Jim was the one facing the sky, looking up at him with wide, exhilarated eyes, surprise and delight flickering in the abysses. 

_I wish we had found each other earlier_.

He caught the words before they could leave his lips and tumble into the cold air, grasped them tightly and acted like the yearning in the simple sentence didn't make his chest painfully tight. 

It wouldn't do any good to voice them, not now at least, not when Jim had finally relaxed… 

Because it wasn't like they hadn't found each other, Jim had known of his existence, of _him,_ he had been planning on how to approach him, and then Sherlock had decided to leave the world behind and had drowned himself in the drugs. 

How nice would it have been if he had resisted the urge long enough for Jim to introduce himself? How perfectly would it have changed the dullness of his life? 

And the worst was that he could easily see it, right there, in the corner of his eyes, a James Moriarty with softer features but a mind just as sharp, so much younger and not yet disenchanted with reality, a Sherlock Holmes tall and lanky still, but without the sickly pallor his addiction had given him, smiling, living. They danced too at the edge of his vision, an unhurried and languid slow, lost into each other's eyes. There was nothing frantic about their movements, no frenzy, no creeping despair, they were young and they were together, they had nothing to worry about. 

Sherlock wished this was reality, wished Jim hadn't threatened John or gotten tortured by Mycroft, wished he didn't have to worry about the future while they swirled into the night, but he did. 

Who knew what the criminal would do when the morning came after all, maybe he would get bored and leave, maybe he would draw back his walls and become a stranger, maybe he would smile sweetly and stab him in the back. 

_Sherlock couldn't afford to fall._

The imaginary detective pressed his lips to his Jim's and Sherlock mirrored the kiss. He did not voice the words he could hear his counterpart whisper into the criminal's ear though, they were not his to tell, not his to speak. Wishing life was different was useless in the end, there was no use losing himself in what-ifs and would-have-beens, especially with Jim flush against his chest, the criminal's hand travelling from his curls to his neck as if he didn't know whether he wanted to pull his hair or leave crescent-shaped marks in his skin. 

Sherlock wouldn't mind the pain either way. 

Before that day, he had never quite understood why new couples were always glued to each other, hadn't quite comprehended what could be so attractive about shoving your face on someone's else, but now he almost wanted to apologize to all the people he had mentally disrespected in his arrogance. As much as he hated to admit it, kissing was horribly addicting when done with the right person-

Jim was the one to pull away first this time, just enough to stare up at him, eyes dark and pleased, licking the new cut Sherlock had left and grinning when he tasted blood. 

"What would you say about tango dear? " he purred and an answering nod was all he needed to take the lead, the two of them quickly falling into the rhythm, grinning at each other while their hands moved more than they strictly needed to on the other's body. 

How he could feel so comfortable and exalted at the same time, he would probably never be able to tell. Sherlock had known James Moriarty for five minute and a night yet it felt like their dinner had been an eternity ago already, like they had known each other for years and had just been reunited. 

They fit, in a way two different people weren't supposed to, same entity cut in half, sides of a coin, birds of a feather…

_Yet Sherlock knew, of course he did, that he couldn't afford to fall._

_New Oxford Street_ , tango had been abandoned in favour of rumba. If their hips brushed more than needed, neither men mentioned it. 

_Great Russell Street_ , Jim was bent over giggling, trying to catch his breath after seeing Sherlock show off a dance move and slip on the ice, barely holding onto a lamppost. He hadn't gotten hurt, but if the criminal was to be believed, his yelp as he tried to grab something to steady himself had been absolutely hilarious. 

_Euston Road_ , Sherlock was holding Jim's wrists against a wall, the criminal's scarf pulled away to give Sherlock better access to his neck, his mouth leaving a trail of reddish bruises and faint bite marks. He filed away all of the little gasps he drew out with his ministrations. 

They managed to get back to Baker Street, _somehow._ Sherlock didn't remember how they even got back but here they were nonetheless, soaked coats thrown haphazardly on the kitchen's chairs, wet shoes kicked aside, the consultants having fallen into the couch as soon as they had reached the flat. The frantic energy was gone now, the hunger replaced by contentment, and they were immobile, the criminal half sprawled on top of his, his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck. 

Jim was humming again, the vibrations tickling Sherlock's skin. It was something soft and slow this time, a never-ending Waltz played on an imperceptible piano, and his eyes were closed, relaxed. He looked almost blissful, completely at ease. 

_Je te veux, Satie_. 

Sherlock smiled to himself as he recalled the name, etching it into the walls of his mind palace. He would remember this, always, and he knew the gentle music of Jim's humming would flow together with his memories, would follow him even in the darkest times. 

_Even if the darkness was brought by Jim himself._

The music slowly came to a stop, replaced with soft breathing, and Sherlock could feel the other's heartbeat against his chest, the slow, unhurried rhythm. Jim had fallen asleep in the middle of a note like a candle suddenly snuffed out and the vibrant energy animating his body had evaporated alongside his consciousness, leaving only the vessel behind, the body of a man that looked far too mellow and harmless to host that dangerous mind. 

Before Sherlock even noticed what he was doing, he had started stroking Jim's hair gently, smiling when the other leaned into the touch and let out a small noise of contentment. 

_Sherlock couldn't afford to fall but he fell nonetheless._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO!  
> Bit of an update here! 
> 
> 1)School restarted so the updates might take a bit longer alas, I'll still try to make sure it won't take too long though! 
> 
> 2)I have other things to write for the amino so I'll probably write and post those before the next chapter of this fic
> 
> 3)I edited the first two chapters!  
> For the little story, this fic was supposed to be a short, fluffy Christmas one shot... It got pretty out of hand and I felt like the mood in the first chapters was different from whatever was going on afterwards, so I changed that a bit and the summary as well since I realised afterwards that Jim is supposed to meet Eurus on Christmas and not on Christmas' EVE...  
> Anyway, it isn't necessary to re-read them to follow the story as the main events didn't change ( what is a bit different is how Jim acts and how Sherlock reacts since the first two chapters were too soft too quickly went put next to the rest.)
> 
> So anyway, hope y'all like this chapter! Tell me what you thought :)


	6. Of course I lied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Poor, poor dear, _of course I lied."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every morning I wake up and choose violence

The first thing Sherlock registered was that there was a weight on his chest, warm and a bit too heavy to be his blanket. It wasn't too uncomfortable, quite the opposite really, but he was almost certain that he couldn't feel his right arm anymore. _Almost._ His perception of reality didn't seem to be the best. 

Said weight also seemed to have a very human shape and a heartbeat, which was quite puzzling considering the fact that he hadn't slept with someone else in years, but at least a mental check told him he still had his clothes on so it was unlikely that anything had happened during the night. Still, it would probably be for the best to act like he wasn't awake yet until he understood the situation better, having to explain himself to someone while he himself had no idea what was going on wouldn’t go well… He continued to breathe slowly, in, out, and tried to deduce more information with his eyes closed. 

The second thing he realised, was that he was on his couch, not his bed like he had originally thought and that he had a pretty bad headache, probably the most awful one he had gotten since his days in rehab. In fact, his efforts to bring back memories only seemed to make him feel even worse _somehow._

Had he used again? 

Sherlock mentally scoffed, immediately refuting the idea. 

No, that wasn't the same kind of pain, that was more reminiscent of that one time at Mycroft's 24th birthday where he had snatched their father's scotch and gotten absolutely wasted to annoy his brother… 

_Alcohol then._

But why would he suddenly decide to drink so much for apparently no reason-

"I know you're awake Sherly, stop pretending to sleep and say hello to daddy~" a hauntingly familiar voice sing sang, and Sherlock immediately tensed up, his eyes flying open despite the pain that immediately made him want to close them again. 

_Oh god, he had to be hallucinating._

Fact one, Moriarty was in his flat, the consulting criminal barely recognisable with his tousled hair and sleepy expression, fact two, he was draped over him like an overgrown house cat, his head propped against the backrest, his eyes curious and slightly amused, fact three, he was wearing his old Christmas jumper-

Oh. 

_Christmas._

Some missing pieces placed themselves but the puzzle still laid unfinished in his mind as fragments of the memories from the previous night- _morning -_ came rushing back, the meal, the crown jewels, the dances-

The _kisses._

Seeing how bad he felt now, he really must have been quite drunk, but even then, that didn’t change the fact that he had still been in control of himself. 

Sherlock would like to blame his actions on the alcohol, to say that Moriarty had made him drink knowing that he would lose his mind, yet he knew that it would just be a lazy way to blame everything on the criminal while wiping his hands off what he had done... The wine and Irish chocolate had certainly helped him along, but he had _wanted_ it, he had looked into the bottomless pits that were James Moriarty's eyes and had desired the man like he had never desired anyone before in his life. 

Jim hadn't even been the one to make the first move, he had made his interest clear, yes, had certainly indicated from the beginning that he wouldn’t mind, but Sherlock had been the one to break that tacit wall between the two of them, the one who turned their intellectual connection into… more. 

His head chose this moment to painfully remind him that thinking too much wasn't a good idea right now and he groaned, throwing himself back against the armrest. Probably yet _another_ bad idea considering the fact that he could already tell that his neck and shoulders would be sore for the next few days, drawbacks of passing out on a couch. Everything was too much, the light, his heartbeat thumping into his ears, Jim's weight on top of him.

"Aww poor dear, do you want something to drink?" the criminal sounded amused but Sherlock could have sworn he had seen something that looked surprisingly like concern flash into those dark eyes. "You really are a lightweight you know? But since you almost didn’t appear affected at all, I guess you can’t have everything…" he trailed off, humming.

_Well, at least he hadn't acted like an idiot._

Jim was watching, observing, taking in all of his reactions. It was payback, he guessed, for the way he had observed the other man after he had fallen asleep… Maybe even for petting his head, the other was bound to have deduced it from the state of his hair or the position of Sherlock's hand, just like the detective could tell that his own curls hadn't been left untouched. 

Had Jim woken long before he did and just watched him sleep? That didn't sound entirely impossible, that would explain why he had been instantly able to tell that he had woken up, and he did look a lot less hungover than Sherlock felt. 

_Cheater._

"Sherrrrrlock~" Jim sang, drawing out the r and arching an eyebrow.

_Oh, yes, he still hadn't answered had he?_

"That would probably help a bit." he managed to croak, but the criminal just stared at him, waiting… _Oh_ "Please. " he added after a second, knowing he had been right when he saw a grin spread out on Jim's face

The other slowly stood up- _Sherlock acted like he didn't miss the warmth,_ and overtly stretched, groaning softly as some left-over tension from his weird position popped away. 

"Be right back darling. "

True to his words, Jim was only gone for a few seconds, walking back to the couch with a glass of pleasantly cool water. 

"You need to eat something too if you want to feel a bit better, alcohol makes your sugar levels drop." Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, some part of his mind recalling the piece of information as he slowly drank "I'll make you an egg and some toasts, think you can stomach it? "

He nodded again. The dizziness and nausea weren't too bad, a lot better than it had been after that incident at Mycroft's birthday at least… 

Jim hummed cheerfully as he walked away and continued his little song while he cooked the eggs, _we can be heroes, just for one day_ drifting into the kitchen. 

"Here's your meal Sherly, dig in while it's warm!" the man grinned, placing the plate on the coffee table while he himself gnawed on a piece of toast. 

Not wanting to refuse the food even if he didn't really feel like eating, he slowly cut his eggs in triangular pieces, eating some with the bread. 

"Not bad."

Jim sniffed in mock offence at the comment. 

"Just 'not bad'?? Do you think you could have done better Mr 'I-keep-eyeballs-in-the-microwave' Holmes? "

"What, do you really want me to believe that your kitchen is safe from your experiments? "

_Touché,_ the criminal's face indicated. 

"Hygienically speaking, you can hardly compare my experiments with you keeping body parts inside your fridge." He said, turning his nose up at the thought. 

"You really mind that much? "

_Why was he so disappointed by the thought?_

"What, the body parts?" Jim scoffed "Did you forget my line of work? Of course I don't mind, I'm just concerned about your continued well-being when you live among health hazards… " his eyes sharpened, entirely focused on the detective "And don't forget dear, I called dibs on killing you, I'm not going to let food poisoning do the job for me."

Sherlock felt like he had just been drenched in icy cold water, his breath caught inside his chest as the world seemed to crumble around him.

_How could he have let himself forget about that even for one second?_

He had dropped his guards because Jim had said he wasn't going to follow his initial plan to harm Sherlock, but he had never said his long term goal had changed… That was the thing with James Moriarty, he didn't lie, he just didn't tell the entire truth and he threaded so well the few things he did say, weaved a reality so pretty, that no one noticed the holes in his stories. 

His words painted a fairy tale, a gorgeous lacery with more gaps than fabric, and not even Sherlock had been the wiser, too entranced by the embroidery created by his dance around the flaws of his narrative 

Trying to find more instances of Jim sidestepping the truth only made his head hurt more. 

"Glad to know I'm safe from mundane deaths, I guess I should thank you."

The criminal seemed surprised by the underlying coldness inside his voice but Sherlock paid no mind to the startled look sent his way, instead deciding to close his eyes in an effort to ignore the other man. 

He had been absolutely foolish to believe Moriarty would just completely drop the plans he had imagined for years after a night… The man must have found it hilarious, how Sherlock had easily lowered his guards, how he had seen the man as an equal and not an enemy on the opposite side of the law, how he had so easily fallen in all of his traps-

"Are you feeling nauseous Sherly? Or is it still your head?" Sherlock stayed silent, hoping the other would just leave him alone, but his actions had the opposite effect, the voice only gaining an edge of concern "Alright, don't answer, it's probably the head or you wouldn't have eaten anything in the first place. I'll just grab some ibuprofen, I'm sure Watson keeps some in his first aid kit. "

"Why are you bothering at all? I assumed your job here would be done now." Sherlock opened his eyes and snapped before the other left for the bathroom, the words coming out with a tinge of bitterness he hadn't planned. 

Jim halted at the doorway, still facing away, his entire frame unnaturally still. 

"And pray tell me dear, what do you think my _job_ here was? " 

His voice was low but soft, almost menacing in its quietness, threatening in its calmness. 

_It's not business, I don't regret coming here dear, dance with me Sherlock,_ his thoughts like a broken record, but he ignored them, steeling himself.

A mask, Sherlock could tell, it was just another mask, and _of course,_ here they were again, back to playing because that was what it was and had always been between them, one long _game_ and he had done all of the wrong moves in a row.

Now Moriarty was just delaying the end, humouring him while holding all of the cards against his chest, asking him to say what he already knew, asking him to _dance-_

_Dance with me Sherlock, a laugh, a twirl, and lips pressing in a bruising kiss._

Alright, then dance he would. 

"You came here to find something to blackmail me with to get Mycroft off your back." He said, cold, clinical. That was the logical explanation after all. "Killing me would make him drop everything to destroy you." Whether it worked or not would probably be more based on sheer luck than intelligence, Moriarty and Mycroft were evenly matched, both in wits and resources "But now you have the videos from the CCTVs proving that I was there with you to steal the jewels and you can argue that it looks like I am emotionally compromised as well." Which meant that he could get Sherlock to back off without eliciting his brother's rage and that he also had some pretty good blackmail material on Mycroft himself… It wouldn't look good if the British Government's brother was seen kissing a known criminal after all. "So there it is, you won, no need to keep the act now."

He should just get his ibuprofen himself and hope he somehow had a deathly allergic reaction to the thing before Mycroft found out. 

"Since you've figured it all out, tell me, why would I have let your brother interrogate me if blackmailing the two Holmes boys was my plan all along? " Moriarty asked, still refusing to face him, still strangely calm, his frame relaxed even as his fingers tapped against his legs. He must hardly be containing his glee then, amusing himself by making him spell it all out. "I could have gone to you with some takeaway food months ago without letting dear Mycroft's men touch a hair of my head yet here I am! "

The detective scowled at the outburst, refusing to let the obvious manipulations cloud his judgment. 

"You knew I didn't condone Mycroft's method and that I was more likely to lower my guard if you _appeared_ to be hurt." he snorted, shaking his head even as the motion sent a wave of nausea crashing against his consciousness. As if anything they had done had truly affected him, the criminal had probably laughed at the pain. 

Sherlock ignored the way Moriarty's hands formed tight fists against his sides, his nails sinking into the skin, and continued evenly.

"Plus, you did say yourself that you needed some information about me for your plan to _burn me_ and Mycroft wouldn't have given you anything unless he knew he had no other alternatives."

Moriarty whirled around then, looking like a man possessed with his burning brimstone eyes and his dishevelled hair, the sweater doing nothing to soften his nearly demonic expression. He was sneering, teeth bared and scorching gaze entirely too focused on Sherlock, watching with an inferno barely beneath the surface.

"But did I need to make you dinner? Tell me, Sherlock, did I need to go to all the trouble, to ditch my plan and to bring you with me to steal the jewels, or would you have fallen this easily without all the effort? "

The words were cruel when allied with that mirthless smile, callous when paired with his almost dismissive pose, the criminal merely leaning against the doorway, posture screaming _I won and I know it._

_Ha._

_This was the closest thing to a confession he would get, wasn't it?_

Moriarty wouldn't even give him the kindness of admitting it. 

Sherlock had been right with his suspicions, of course he had been, he should be happy that he had noticed the other's deception before it was too late- _too late for what? For him? He had fallen already, there was hardly anything salvageable of him now-_ but the only thing he felt was sorrow when faced with the fantasy's end. 

Still, somehow he couldn't stop himself from asking :

"Did you lie when you answered my questions?"

Sherlock heard a snort but he saw no amusement on Moriarty's face.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific darling, all I did was answer your questions. " the criminal, his dark eyes betraying none of his thoughts. 

"Did you lie when you said that you had seen me with the Powers' case? When you said that you tried to talk to me when I was high?"

Moriarty smiled cruelly, the expression twisting his features into an ugly parody of the content and elated grin he had seen a few hours before. 

"Do you even need to ask? Aww really Sherly? Did you think yourself so special?" he closed his eyes, shaking his head before opening them back, the bottomless pits seemingly sucking out all the warmth of the room. "Of course I lied." something sounded strange with the statement but before Sherlock could pinpoint it, Moriarty had continued "Did you imagine me following you through the pool as a child, hiding behind a wall before you could see me? Going to Cambridge just to follow you and nearly dropping off once you left? Starting the drug business just to keep an eye on what you took?" His laughter was corrosive, toxic waste washing up on poisonous lips and permeating the air like a contagious pathogen. "Poor, poor dear, _of course I lied_." Repetition, thrice was the charm but twice would have to do "I didn't spend my entire life planning our meetings, I just noticed you because your pet killed my cabbie and when I realised that you were the Ice Man's baby brother, I decided to kill two birds with one stone. "

Sherlock forced the thoughts of a young Jim stalking him away, trying, and failing, to keep his growing headache at bay. He observed Moriarty as he pushed himself off the doorway, the criminal rolling his neck in that familiar, reptilian motion before grabbing his coat and his scarf from the chair where they had been thrown the night before. 

"Well, now that we're on the same page, I don't think I have any reason to stay here… " he trailed off, glancing around as if he was looking for one before letting his eyes fall on the detective's form on the couch. "So long Sherlock Holmes, I have to admit that the evening was enjoyable." Moriarty turned around and began walking away before stopping, seemingly hesitating "Keep the whiskey."

And with those last words, before Sherlock could muster a proper response, a proper farewell, James Moriarty had left 221b Baker Street. 

It was in that instant that he realised that he would probably never see the other man again. 

Moriarty had always been a ghost, invisible, imperceptible, Mycroft had been the one who had dealt with him before simply because the consulting criminal usually didn't lower himself to orchestrating petty murders when he already ran world-wide arm smuggling rings and dealt with governments on a daily basis… the little murders he had given him had always been just playing for the man, Sherlock had never crossed his path before the cabbie and now he never would again. 

He got himself out of the couch, found the ibuprofen, and acted like the thing that pained him was the hangover and not the thoughts, crashing into his bed and closing the door behind him. At least Moriarty had had the kindness of closing the curtains and keeping the lights off while he had been there, the sunlight had still found its way inside the living room but it hadn't been too uncomfortable…

_Great, now he was thanking his nemesis for basic human decency._

Sherlock groaned, trying to keep the memories from the last night at bay. After the criminal had left, they had continued to slowly come back, a few instants at a time, fragments of a Waltz, flashes of a kiss, and he felt like he was going to lose his mind. Going inside his mind palace to sort them had seemed like a good idea at first, he would be able to just shove them in a box and throw it away, but he quickly realised it had been a mistake. 

_Lips tasting of desperation-_

_Reverent eyes-_

_I think I found a better way to solve it though-_

Useless useless _useless_ , why were his thoughts so intent on reminding him of his failure? He knew he had lost, making him relive every moment in vivid detail wasn't going to help! 

As if hearing his cry, the memories shifted, snow and empty streets replaced by Baker Street, smiles and laughter by pain and bitterness. 

_Unnatural stillness, bloody crescent-shaped marks in his palms where his nails had sunk, blazing gaze that burned with a feverish intensity-_

A strange show of fury for a winner… 

He couldn't help but frown slightly, his mind flying over the events in an effort to find what had angered the other so much when all he should have felt was triumph an maybe misplaced amused. Had he been angered by how easy it had been? By the fact that he had managed to get Sherlock after merely a night spent together? He had no reason to be when Mycroft was his real opponent though, when he had just gotten interested in the detective a few months ago-

_Of course I lied._

Sherlock froze, his eyes flying open in the dark room, because here it was, it would make sense for him to feel victorious if Sherlock Holmes was just a pebble he had kicked away from his path, but if he had been interested in him since Powers like he had said initially, if he had been anticipating their meetings for years-

_Of course I lied,_ the criminal had said, _twice,_ his mind noted, _repetitions are boring,_ Jim's voice drawled. 

That was the thing with Moriarty, he didn't _lie_.

_Of course I lied,_ he had said, _of course I'm lying,_ he had meant and this was the only falsehood James Moriarty had ever told him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hit me too hard, I promise things are going to get better soon!


	7. Drifting on memory lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim does the thing he always does when he needs to center himself : he breathes in, out, and slips under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian and Jim pov? Yup

_Something was very wrong with Jim._

The sniper's eyes sharpened at the thought and focused on the immobile form lying on the sofa, following the slight rise and fall of his chest. 

Sebastian had realised that fact the second he had entered into their shared flat after following the criminal home, realised the very instant he had stepped inside and hadn't been assaulted by Jim's excited chatter about his curly-haired detective, realised because Jim was always too many things at once after hearing anything related to Holmes, but _quiet_ certainly wasn't one of them. 

Not this kind of quietness at least. 

Sometimes he would stay glued to his computer, fingers gently brushing against the screen like he could feel the skin re-created by the pixels, slip into the picture with his touch, sometimes he would start a new diagram on the wall and pin newspaper articles everywhere, sometimes he would slip into his room to look at the box of mementoes he always kept hidden, and he would be silent then, lost in his mind, but not like _this_. Everything about his current behaviour felt completely and utterly wrong _._

James Moriarty wasn't supposed to look this way after seeing Sherlock Holmes, never. It was the first time he had seen the criminal delve into his mind palace right after meeting with Holmes, and seeing as he usually went there when he was too angry to regain his sanity after breaking a few things, when he needed to plan or when he was avoiding the world, that presaged nothing good. 

As much as Sebastian hated to admit it, the mere mention of the detective always filled Jim with manic energy, completely banished whatever mood he had been in before and filled him with _life_ even in one of his worst depressive episodes, even when nothing else could. Right now though, his expression was exactly the same as it had been when he had come back from the interrogation: seemingly blank but with those frayed edges, those cracks in the mask, all those things he had never allowed Mycroft to see-

So no, as much as he would like to say the opposite, Jim certainly wasn't alright, even to his standard. 

It wasn't like Jim had been _fine_ ever since he came back from wherever the Ice Man had kept him- _it wasn't like he had ever really been fine in the first place-_ he had talked less, eaten only when Sebastian forced him to and had hardly slept unless his mind forced him to crash and he was too exhausted to dream. For the first few weeks of his return, he had barely even seemed alive, too quiet, too still, too pale…

But thinking about his plans with Sherlock had brought the fire back into his eyes, a light that burned even brighter than before somehow- _too bright, far too bright, it had made him look mad, feverish-_ and suddenly he had been making calls again, eating and acting like everything was back to normal. 

_He still hadn't slept though, not really, and more than once Sebastian had woken up in the middle of the night to find Jim's bed empty and him standing on the edges of the rooftop with his arms open wide, his head thrown back as if he was waiting for God to strike him down, as if he wanted him to._

_"Go back inside Jimmy, you're going to freeze to your death." Sebastian would always say._

_"Would it be that bad?" Jim had answered once, eyes darker than the night could ever be in a city like London, darker than what should be humanly possible. The sniper had seen the minute twitches in his expression, the cracks, and he had known that tonight Jim was too far gone inside his own mind to step away from the ledge on his own._

_"You made a promise." Sebastian had said, resisting the urge to step forwards and drag him back inside._

_The criminal had been the one to tell him about that during one of his worst episodes a few years ago, he had been playing with a gun, safety off, muzzle far too close to his head for comfort, eyes wide and shining with something mad. For an instant, a second that had stretched for an eternity, he had seemed ready to pull the trigger, but the next moment Jim had switched on the safety and thrown the gun away, muttering about that mysterious oath._

_"You made a promise, or maybe someone made one to you, I don't know, you never told me, but I really can't let you die of hypothermia here-" please don't jump, please don't "-it wouldn't be good if you didn't keep your word, would it? "_

_Jim had seemed to consider his words for a second, to hesitate, and then he had smiled, hopped off the ledge and gone back inside._

_The next morning, neither of the men had mentioned what had happened and Sebastian had blocked the access to the rooftop._

The sniper shook his head, forced the memories away and focused once again on the present, on the current situation and Jim's boneless form. 

Reqlly, for him to hide inside his mind palace after meeting Sherlock… 

Something must have happened after the criminal had drawn the curtains of 221b and cut off his line of sight, that was the most likely possibility as he had seemed to enjoy himself before that. 

Not that Sebastian had known what Jim's plan even was in the first place, whether he had wanted to poison Holmes' food or just cook him a nice Christmas dinner for some reason, but seeing as they had ended up snogging in the streets and lying on top of each other in a couch, he would have said that they were going along just fine. 

_Jim had winked before closing the curtains, grinning even as the fabric hid his face, he had been finefinefine-_

So what had changed in that short while? The detective could have realised Sebastian didn't have him in his sight anymore and gotten violent, but Jim had no obvious new injuries he could see, except for the bite marks on his neck and those had seemed pretty consensual. He was still fully dressed though, and with hindsight, Sherlock would have attacked with words and not fists… Geniuses tended to want things clever after all, elegant, and a punch in the face could be a lot of things but it did lack a certain finesse. 

_Words then?_

Sebastian scoffed at the thought. 

That still made no sense, Jim was used to getting threats and insults thrown his way, people didn't dare to when they knew who he really was obviously, but most of their 'business partners' had no idea and could get verbally- _when it wasn't physically-_ violent if things didn't go their way... The sniper himself had gotten angry at the madman more times than he cared to admit- _not that it ever went past screaming matches and half-hearted jibes_ \- so something had been different this time-

_Sherlock._

Jim had always followed the detective's every move, listened to everything he said through the bugs in Baker Street and committed to memory all of his reactions with an intensity that verged on adoration, so of course, his words wouldn't have been treated with the same carelessness others' were… 

But was that all that it was? Jim was leaving the world behind for the unforeseeable future because his nemesis hadn't played nice? 

_Sebastian had opened Jim's box of mementoes once when the man was away, and it had been all Sherlock, Sherlock smiling awkwardly in an old school picture, Sherlock smirking at the camera after winning his school's science fair, Sherlock scowling on the day of his graduation. Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock, his medical file, his first appearance in the papers, whatever Watson wrote about him in his blog printed out and carefully annotated._

_Sherlock, just Sherlock, always Sherlock._

_Sometimes Sebastian wondered if Jim lived for something other than the man._

He glanced at the criminal, stepped forward and kneeled to be at the same level. His face was blank, seemingly relaxed, but his eyes were moving beneath his closed eyelids, seeing things that weren't there. Jim was deep inside his mind, deeper than the average human being even thought to look, for all intent and purposes he was dead to the world and Sebastian knew that even shaking him or yelling his name wouldn't be enough to bring him back out. 

Nothing could ever make him snap out of this state when he didn't want to, not Mycroft and certainly not Sebastian, that fact had become clear when Jim had come back from the Ice Man's care and hadn't even seemed to notice him for two days. 

Sebastian carried the criminal's limp form to his bedroom and carefully laid him down on his bed, making sure to place the pillows so that Jim wouldn't feel too stiff or sore once he woke up. 

_He debated undressing him for an instant but the man was still wearing Sherlock's jumper, and with how unpredictable his reactions regarding Holmes could be, Sebastian didn't want to test whether or not he actually wanted to keep the thing on._

He sighed and passed his hand through his cropped hair. 

There was nothing left for him to do here, he would come to force some electrolytes down Jim's throat if he didn't come back out soon but otherwise it wasn't like he could reach inside his mind and pull him out… Sebastian closed the bedroom's door behind him and dropped on the still warm sofa, readying himself for the wait. 

_Sometimes he wondered if Jim lived for something other than Sherlock Holmes and sometimes he knew._

\------------

Jim had strode out of Baker Street-

_SherlockSherlockSherlock, that name like white noise buzzing inside his ears-_

Entered the car waiting for him-

_Of course I lied, cruel, callous, of course I'm lying-_

Spent the entire ride silent-

_Not silent, never silent, his thoughts had been screaming, deafening-_

Been dropped off in front of his Mayfair flat-

_His favourite, always his favourite-_

And collapsed on one of the couches as soon as he had been inside. 

_Breathe in, out, and slip under._

He closed his eyes and let his consciousness desert his body, the couch and the flat, let himself get dragged deep inside his mind. The next time he opened his eyes he was standing on the pristine tiles of a familiar pool, clad in one of his favourite suits, the water reflecting all of the sharp edges. Immediately he felt calmer, centred, the chlorine smell pushing away the memories of Sherlock's words and letting him breathe, letting him _think._

Going inside his mind palace helped when nothing else could, and when he didn't know what to do, diving back into his memories was his best- _his only-_ solution. 

Jim started mentally counting down and kept his eyes focused on the door, waiting-

A shadow picked the lock and entered the building, looking around to make sure it truly was empty before walking directly towards the locker-room, confident but careful. The intruder clearly knew that there would be nothing to find in the water itself or in the main room for that matter. Jim watched from afar, now and before, old and young, twice in time he watched and said nothing, observing the boy's reactions. 

_Sherlock,_ the child was named- _he learned that later, much later-_ and he had been the only one to even suspect Carl's death was something other than a tragic accident. After merely reading about the case in the papers, he had seen, he had _known_ , and he had taken the first train to London to prove that to the entire world...

Not that the world had believed him or even listened, Jim had seen him explain how illogical it was for the shoes to suddenly disappear only for a police officer to pat him on the head and tell him to stop playing detective. 

"Accepting that Carl drowned is already very hard for his family, so now is really not the time for your little fantasies kid. It's unfair but sometimes people die for no reason, that's just how life is." the man had said before refusing him to let him into the pool, and from where he was hiding, Jim had seen the boy's eyes _burn_. 

So, of course, he had sneaked inside the pool, staying still until everyone left, and waited for the other to show up. Sherlock hadn't disappointed. 

_At that time he had thought that Sherlock couldn't disappoint._

Jim scowled and ignored the young detective for now to glance at his past self, at the softer features and the fascinated gleam in the boy's eyes, at the way he was watching Sherlock and barely restraining himself from leaving his hiding space, at how his very being exuded hunger. Even as a child, he had been completely obsessed. 

Initially he had been livid of course, because how _dared_ that boy come from nowhere and try to destroy his perfect plan, but then it had turned into curiosity, something that made him follow the other everywhere he went, before finally settling on complete and utter captivation. Sherlock wasn't ordinary, wasn't boring, he had done more than merely accept the obvious solution and he had almost seen reality, seen _him._

Jim continued his casual observation and felt the smile slip off his features. He always forgot- _tried to forget-_ the tattered sweater he had been wearing that night and the purple bruises half-hidden by the sleeves, but seeing them again made old anger rise to the surface again. He forced himself to breathe, the memory wavering around him, the rage threatening to swallow him whole, to drown him, and _suddenly he could remember pain and hands on his skin and he couldn't breathe-_

"Stop it, _stop it! "_ Jim growled, holding his head until the ground stabilized beneath his feet. 

_He was dead, he was dead and Carl was dead and everyone who ever had the bad idea of laying a hand on him was dead-_

"Coming here is not the solution." a voice said, soft, quiet, yet echoing like a gunshot in the silence, a tear into the fabric of his thoughts. 

_Sherlock._

In another time, another place, two persons stood in a dark pool, moonlight illuminating the room and casting its strange glow on their faces, the ceiling replaced by the infinity of the night sky during his inner struggle. 

Jim smiled mirthlessly at the other, emotionless gaze fixed on kaleidoscope eyes. 

"Isn't it? "

The boy standing in front of him- _because he was a boy, not even a teen, all soft angles and delicate features-_ frowned but didn't approach him, all of his body language broadcasting hesitation and concern. The emotions looked weird on his face, the expression too raw, too open. But well, it wasn't the real Sherlock after all, he would never be, it was merely what he had reconstructed of him as a child, what he had wanted to see in the other. 

"You need to deal with the situation, not go in here to avoid it!"

Jim snarled in answer, taking a threatening step towards the boy. 

"Shut up _love_ , don't speak about things you know nothing about, what good would it do for me to go back out in this state?" He gestured at the cracks running through the previously spotless tiles, at the missing ceiling "I need to get it back under control, and you're aware of what that entails. "

Sherlock didn't shy away from him, even with Jim now standing closer, he stood his ground, determination flashing inside his eyes. 

_This Sherlock was always so resolved, so stubborn, Jim had wanted a friend who would never leave him behind or abandon him during one of his bad times, and so the apparition had always been like this, fiercely persistent in his quest to 'save him' from himself._

"You know what watching these memories will do. "

"It'll just put me back on the track I shouldn't have left in the first place, my dear" Jim sing-sang, his voice laced with mock amusement "And well, I really should have guessed how that night would end, things always go this way with Sherlock Holmes, don't they?" he asked with a sweet smile "He manages to get my hopes up and then tears them apart, again and again and _again._ "

_Well not anymore._

The child frowned and tried to argue, to defend the man he was moulded after. 

"His fears were rational, you can't ask him to trust you when he doesn't remember what happened, just how is he supposed to _know_ -"

"If he can't even deduce that then he is far more limited than I thought. " the criminal spat, daring Sherlock to disagree. 

He did not, instead he stayed silent for a few seconds, looked at the pool, at the sky, and then back at him. 

"Still, there's nothing for you here, you'll just get lost. " Sherlock said, biting his lips, and Jim laughed. 

Lost? 

_Lost?_

_He already was and this was the only way to find his way back._

"Maybe I _want_ to get lost, love, didn't you think of that?" 

"We both know that's not quite true."

This time Sherlock wasn't the one who spoke, Jim's younger self had also extricated himself from the memory and had left his hiding place while the criminal wasn't looking to stand at the other child's side. The fake Jim smoothly entered Sherlock's personal space and entwined their fingers before bringing their linked hands to his lips and kissing the detective's knuckles. 

_Great, even his past self was against him it seemed._

Jim grimaced, turning his back on the two children only to come face to face with them again. 

"You need to leave this place, you already know what you will find down there." Sherlock insisted, far too gentle, far too _soft_. 

It was his own fault, Jim knew, when he had created that puppet he had wanted a friend as much as a playmate, he had wanted someone who would hold him and make everything else go away, someone who would stay at his side until his mind finally stopped drowning him in the sound. This Sherlock had been merely warped to fit his desires...

Scowling, Jim banished the apparitions with a wave of his hand, dismissed their warnings, and walked away, letting the pool crumble around him, linked memories floating around him, pulling him further, deeper. 

_Cambridge._

He caught a glance of an older Sherlock hunched over a book in the library but he shook his head and didn't slow his pace, ignoring his younger self currently observing the other from behind a bookshelf. 

This game of cat and mouse had lasted for a while even if he had always played alone… Jim had watched from afar, fearing rejection if he approached directly- _he only had his brain to his name at this point, no tailored suits, no hidden snipers, no intricate web, Sherlock would have had no reason to look twice if he came up to him-_ and Sherlock had continued to study, attending half of his class and spending the rest of the time in the library. 

He hadn't had that many opportunities to see him since they didn't have the same classes nor the same schedule, but Jim had been fine with just a few glimpses while he climbed the social ladder and he had been looking for a reason to speak to him-

Then Sherlock had stopped coming to the campus. 

It hadn't been sudden, he had just started missing more classes than usual, leaving early instead of staying inside the library, avoiding people even more than before, and initially, Jim hadn't even really noticed anything was that wrong. It wasn't like he had ever gotten close enough to the other to ask him directly or even to gauge his health himself, so it had taken him far too long to understand the problem. 

Drugs. 

Something simple, ordinary, even common among college students. 

_Boring._

Jim closed his eyes and treaded onwards, ignoring the sight of his younger self screaming and thrashing his flat, walking past the rage and destruction. 

_Coming here is not the solution,_ the young Sherlock had said, and Jim couldn't help but wonder if he had been right. 

Still, he didn't stop. 

_He couldn't._

He knew he could just call the memory directly to him, avoid the reminders of the detective's failure, push aside the crushing disappointment he had felt the day he had found out and just go right to the point, but doing it this way never felt right. 

_When he had been inside the government's cells, he had gone down that path, again and again, using his mind as an escape from the torture and the maddening boredom, as a way to remind himself why he was there. No one could say that the older Holmes wasn't good at his job though, even if interrogating a suspect wasn't his main task. Mycroft had been angry, yes, frightened for his brother, absolutely, but just as clever and observant as he always was… Maybe he had already known before that pain would still reach him even if he gave no outward reaction, maybe he hadn't, but what remained was that he had artfully used everything in his arsenal to make it hurt._

Jim shook his head in annoyance, trying to forget the phantom aches, ignoring the tremors shaking his hands by shoving them in his suit's pocket and continuing to walk through the memories.

_It wasn't real, not anymore, he just has to push past it-_

Before Mycroft, he had always believed that pain could never be used to make him do anything he didn't want to do. He had been right, of course, but now the cracks running through the foundations of his mind reminded him of how arrogant that thought had been.

As much as he wished they were, physical sensations weren't things that could be completely ignored, even by someone like him. Jim was able to hide his reaction by going inside his mind, leaving his body in a state between unconsciousness and meditative trance, but that didn't mean he didn't _feel_ it. Once the older Holmes had realised that, he had only needed to work out what was the best combination of sleep deprivation, perceptual isolation and torture to break through his defences… 

Then something in Jim had snapped, but so what? He hadn't spoken and Mycroft had only broken things that had already been shattered before, so who cared if he hadn't been able to put himself back together quite in the same way? 

His plan had worked, he had obtained the information on Sherlock and he had been alive. 

_At that point he hadn't wanted to be, but it wasn't like that changed anything._

Jim scowled and forced his attention back on the images his mind had conjured, on the recollections they brought back up. 

Unlike the previous memories, this one showed a Jim that was already way down the path of becoming London's most dangerous man, one who had sunk his teeth into the city's criminal world and was never going to let go. He wasn't much older but the charcoal suit and the darkness in his gaze made him appear well into his twenties, still too young looking to pretend he was the Moriarty everyone was whispering about- _no one would believe the one and only consulting criminal to be barely out of his teens-_ but mature enough that no one would outwardly mock him.

Jim could remember very well what he had done that day, he had started managing London's drug trafficking a few months before and-

"You were monitoring what I was taking."

Sherlock again- _always,_ older, thinner, with the thinness only addicts seemed to attain, pupils blown wide and skin a pasty shade of white, the apparition standing right at his younger self's shoulder. 

"It would have been stupid to lose you to a badly cut hit, don't you think? " Jim asked, observing the gaunt face, the jutting bones, before looking away "You were already killing yourself, I had to make sure you wouldn't die accidentally at least. "

"So you placed some men in all of the drug dens I frequented and made sure my providers knew what would happen if they gave me something that wasn't pure or didn't call an ambulance when I overdosed. " Sherlock smiled slightly, the expression twisting his features strangely as he circled the criminal "Nice to know you cared."

_Cared?_

Jim grinned back and shook his head, dark amusement thrumming inside his chest. 

"I wanted you to die at my side and I wasn't going to kill myself in a drug den… Those are really far too dirty and hardly melodramatic enough for the two of us, I thought we deserved something better. "

Around them, the world twisted, following his words, the old warehouse where he had met the drug dealers turning into the rooftop of an abandoned factory, the stars of this mind palace mirrored almost perfectly by the night sky. 

_It was the other way around, he knew._

"And so that was the perfect place, the spot to die." Sherlock said softly, his eyes focused on the Jim from the memory currently opening the door to the rooftop, on the lanky young man stumbling after him. 

The criminal hummed, following his gaze. They had both been quite the sight, that was certain, Jim's face had been far paler and thinner than it was now, exhaustion battling manic energy inside his frame, and Sherlock hadn't looked any better, the drugs' grip obvious even in the darkness of the night. 

"You didn't even ask me where we were going, you know? " Jim continued without letting him answer, the apparition knew that very well after all "Or who I was for that matter. You were completely out of it, barely lucid or coherent, I think you didn't even believe any of it was real."

_We met at some point, years ago, in a drug den._ That was what he had told Sherlock during their dinner, and that was the truth, albeit a redacted account. 

Years had passed after the other had left Cambridge and gotten interested in drugs, without things changing for the better. Mycroft had arranged for Sherlock to go to rehab 8 times- _Jim had often helped, giving anonymous tips when the Ice Man couldn't find his brother-_ and Sherlock had broken out, again and again, his genius brain working long enough for him to bypass the security and find his next fix before shutting down once more. It was a way to shield himself from reality, maybe, but Jim hated it, hated _him,_ nonetheless. 

How dared he abandon him? How dared he step away from life when he had been born with all the privileges in the world? When he had never needed money, never been bullied, never been beaten to an inch of his life just for being different? 

_There were hands on his skin and hands holding his wrists and hands everywhere and Jim couldn't breathe-_

How dared he turn his brain into mush when he had been raised by a brilliant mother and a kind father, when he had grown up with a genius brother, when he had been understood the second he had come out of the womb? 

_Freak, changeling, faerie child, those words had been hurled at him as far as he could remember and he had worn them with pride, donned them like a shimmering cloak of hatred and sculpted himself a crown out of their loathing._

Sherlock had failed him, he had let him down. Jim had had so many expectations for him and he had somehow managed to destroy every single one of them. 

At first, he had felt hurt, betrayed, he had tried to bring him back on the right path, to take away the drugs and throw him towards Mycroft. 

_Surely Sherlock would realise he was throwing his life away if he was given the chance, surely he would go back to being brilliant if Jim just helped him-_

He had used his growing influence to forbid everyone from selling anything to him but his control hadn't been absolute yet, and so Sherlock had always managed to get a hit…

After the first year, the pain had turned into rage. It was funny in a way, how much more that hurt. Jim had swallowed a blazing inferno to keep it from spewing out of his lips, he had consumed the flames to stop them from consuming him- _it hadn't worked, it hadn't, and the fire had set his very mind ablaze, the scorching heat making it impossible to even think for weeks, but it had been that or killing Sherlock with his bare hands, and so Jim had let himself burn._

He had hated Sherlock then, hated him _so much,_ he had wanted to find the man and tear him apart, open his ribcage and watch the life seep out of his eyes. He hadn't though- _the child that remained in his memories, the one who had seen Sherlock and wanted to be seen in return, had howled not this way, not this way, notthisway-_ and with time even the anger had faded. 

Even _Jim_ himself had faded. 

Taking control of the drug trafficking in London had been relatively easy, he had gotten threatened daily, shot at a few times, kidnapped once, but ultimately it had been absolutely boring once people had started to learn his name. Afterwards he had continued to stretch, to expend, he had gained more and more power while staying in the shadows, he had played games all around England and toppled empires, but even playing the invisible puppeteer had lost its charm quickly. 

_Everybody didn't want to rule the world it seemed._

He had more money than he would ever be able to use in a lifetime, great, the mere mention of his name made grown men shiver and look over their shoulder, awesome, threads of his web had reached Europe, _perfect_. 

The boredom had still been eating his brain away, his mind had still been decaying in the dullness of the world, his- _brilliant, always far too brilliant, Icarus reaching for the sun-_ thoughts had still been creating a deafening cacophony in his head. 

Usually thinking of Sherlock, of what they would do and how well they would go along had kept everything at bay until he found another distraction, but then? Then it had just made the howls louder, shriller-

So he had simply decided to end it.

Nice, simple, elegant, he had nothing to live for, nothing to regret, thus he would just die and be done with it, bring Sherlock to that abandoned factory in the outskirts of London, take his hand- _never let go-_ and jump off the rooftop together. 

_Jim had done his research, he had never even thought of dying alone and so he had pondered for a while what could be the best way for the two of them to bow out of life, whether it would be nicer to go off together with poison or a bullet. His hesitation hadn't lasted very long though, jumping with their fingers entwined would be so much nicer, wouldn't it? They would be fully lucid until the very end, they would look into each other's eyes, see the ground, the sky, and then fly._

It would have been splendid, grandiose, absolutely _perfect_. 

"You didn't want it." The fake Sherlock commented from his place at Jim's side, still watching the scene unravel, observing the way the younger Sherlock acted in the memory. 

"I wanted to die." _I still do._

"Not this way." Jim said nothing, gaze lost somewhere between "Not when I didn't even know you existed or how important you were, not when we hadn't even _met."_

_You wanted to be seen, to be known, you wanted to exist at least for an instant before vanishing forever-_

"It didn't matter, I didn't care anymore. "

What Sherlock was saying wasn't a lie, at some point it would have been right and Jim wouldn't have envisioned dying like this, with Sherlock too high to even register what was happening, but then there had been the drugs, the failed rehabs, the crushing, never-ending disappointment. At the moment where this memory took place, Jim hadn't slept properly in weeks, unable to silence his mind, drowning in the growing emptiness and the boredom, he had only eaten enough to stay upright, his stomach refusing to keep anything more, and he hadn't felt alive in months. 

This had seemed like the best solution, the _only_ solution. He would die and everything would finally stop being so damn _loud._

_His thoughts had screamed, set ablaze, they had howled at Sherlock, at himself, at the entire world, he had stood in a maelstrom of his own making and seen no escape._

The criminal and the shade watched as the other Jim purposely walked towards the ledge, Sherlock following him dutifully like a child, looking around with unfocused eyes. 

_They wouldn't even jump, they would just continue to walk until they stepped on thin air and just couldn't go farther anymore. The addict probably wouldn't even notice that they were falling… Or maybe he would just think they were flying instead, and what a beautiful way to die that was._

The younger Jim smiled at the thought, or maybe at the closeness of his goal, and advanced until he was just one step away, until his foot was hovering over the drop-

"It's beautiful. " Sherlock said softly, the whisper startling Jim enough to make him stumble back. 

Surprised, he looked up to follow his gaze and the sight made him gasp in wonder. Even before they had gotten on the rooftop, when they had gotten out of the car and walked towards the factory, he had been so focused on his plan that he hadn't even noticed the fact that for once, the sky was cloudless, and that with London being farther away, the light pollution wasn't too bad…

Right now the stars shone above them in the firmament, they glimmered, all alone yet together, surrounded by the infinity of the void. Jim could see them all and name them, the constellations, the binary star systems, the nebulas, they were spread out for them to admire, their beauty feeling almost profane at a time like this. 

"Oh. " was the only sound that managed to pass his lips, everything else stuck in his throat. 

Watching the memory, the criminal turned away. 

The cosmos had been unfair to show him something like this at that moment, knowing that in another world, another reality, he could have been enjoying the night sky with Sherlock, the two of them lying on a blanket on that same rooftop, observing the stars. In another world, another reality, maybe Jim wouldn't have gotten apathetic towards everything, towards maths, the cosmos and life, maybe in another world they would have decided to go there together and they would have chosen this place to live and not to die. 

Jim only looked back at the two silhouettes when he heard his younger self speak, venomous words echoing in the icy air. 

"I hate you, you know? " Jim wasn't sure whether it was the utter loathing in his voice or how exhausted he sounded, but something made Sherlock finally look at him, truly look at him, dilated pupils meeting empty abysses "More than anything in this world." 

"Why? " he asked, the surprise and confusion clear in his tone. 

_Ha,_ it must have been completely perplexing to him right? A man he didn't even know had dragged him on a rooftop in the middle of the night while he was high and professed his undying hatred after Sherlock had mentioned the beauty of the stars… 

"Because you were supposed to see me, you were supposed to play with me and instead you decided to destroy yourself-" _and me_ "-with those stupid drugs." Jim grinned but there was no joy in it, no mirth in his eyes, only all-consuming exhaustion and despair "You became _boring. "_

A part of him had wanted to be boring too if that was what Sherlock was, so he had tried heroin, at some point, because if the other found relief in it, why not him? 

_It had made everything worse, so much worse, his thoughts had howled so much louder and there had been hands dragging him deeper, under, and no matter how much he had fought, no matter how much he had tried, he hadn't been able to move-_

Jim watched as the addict blinked in bewilderment, silent for a few seconds, watched as the realisation hit. 

"You're like me, aren't you? " Sherlock's gaze flew over his face, looking for confirmation, open and desperate, before he tightly closed his eyes, confusion replaced by pain and sadness "I'm sorry, I really am."

_Sorry that you were born like that, sorry that you had to live with it, sorry that I went and left you alone when you were waiting for me to see you._

Jim didn't answer, staying silent for the longest time, he merely leaned over the edge and glanced down, at the ground, at the fall, before looking up at the stars, his mind adrift into the cosmos. 

Maybe, somewhere, far away, there was another world that harboured life, maybe the creatures living there were like them, or alike enough to watch the sky too, maybe one of them was observing the stars right now, wondering the same thing. 

Maybe they also longed for the oblivion the void offered, maybe they were falling and keeping their eyes on the sky to ignore the landing. 

"Do you ever think about death, Sherlock? "

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, looking surprisingly lucid for a man with that much heroin into his bloodstream. 

"No I don't. I try not to at least, I don't like thinking about it. " he hesitated "Do you?"

Jim simply nodded, raising his hand towards the sky like he was reaching for the slight crescent of the moon. 

"Constantly. It's just-" he paused, looking for the right words, before dismissively waving his hand in the air "-it's all so _dull_ , life is constantly looking for distraction while knowing that one day it won't be enough, so of course, I thought about the other possibility. "

He had _yearned it-_

Jim closed his eyes with a smile, ready to step forward, away- _Sherlock would follow now that he knew that Jim was just like him, wouldn't he?_ \- but just as he was about to do so, arms closed around him, bringing away from the ledge, the grip unexpectedly strong for a man so thin. 

"Please don't. " Sherlock said against his neck. 

For a second, Jim entertained the idea of struggling, of pushing the other off and leaping alone into the sky, but he wouldn't have been able to do it even if he wanted to. Maybe it was the exhaustion, maybe it was his lack of eating these last few days, maybe it was the fact that he couldn't remember ever being held this way, he didn't quite know but something made him sag into the embrace. 

"Don't what?"

Jim practically felt the scoff in the way the other tensed against him. 

"The world feels slower but that doesn't mean I'm suddenly stupid-" _you wouldn't be interested in me if I were, wouldn't things be easier?_ "I can tell that you brought me here for a double suicide, you haven't slept in days, probably trying to convince yourself that this was the best solution, you didn't even react when you fell and cut your hands earlier-" Jim vaguely remembered stumbling and falling, he hadn't even noticed he had landed on pieces of broken glass until blood had stained his coat "-and seeing how you hold your arms, it's highly probable that you intentionally hurt yourself regularly. "

_Wrong, even if only for the last part. The injuries hadn't been deliberate, they had been like the one he had gotten after his fall, he had been attacked during a meeting gone wrong and just been too far gone inside his mind to register that he was in pain._

"So? " Jim asked, shrugging as best as he could from inside the other's arms. 

The answer was immediate. 

"Please don't do it." A pause, determination lacing his words "Promise me that you won't. "

_Promise me that you won't? What would that change for him if a nobody decided to off himself? Had Sherlock asked to leave, he would have understood- even if he wouldn't have agreed- but this?_

"And why would I promise you that? If we're here surely you understand that's because I don't have any reason to live." He smiled, his eyes hollow "I don't do things for free Sherlock-" _even if the thing in question was staying alive_ "-so why should I? "

The other was silent for an instant, an eternity of hesitation, a forever of uncertainty, and then he spoke. 

"Because if you do I promise that I'll really go to rehab tomorrow and that once I'm clean, I'll play with you."

_As if._

"You think I will believe that? I know how many times you went to rehab-" _how many times I helped your brother send you there_ "-you always ditched the whole thing after two weeks at most. " Jim fought off Sherlock's grip once he noticed the addict was distracted enough to let him go, pushing him away until they were two separate entities again, facing each other on that rooftop. 

"That's why I swear that this time I won't leave until I'm allowed to, I'll go through the withdrawal, whatever program they insist on making me follow, I'll wait as long as I'll need to and when they finally let me out, I'll find you and you won't have to be alone anymore. "

Jim didn't want to believe him, he didn't want to get his hopes up again only for them to be destroyed the next day when Sherlock went back to his habits, he didn't want to stop his perfect suicide for an empty promise-

He did. 

"As long as I hold my end of the bargain then?"

Sherlock smiled at the stars, smiled at him, the beautiful sight only spoiled by the unfocused look in his kaleidoscope eyes. 

"As long as you're alive. "

_You won't have to be alone anymore._

Jim breathed in, out, choking on the air, on the words, wanting to move towards and away from him at the same time, wanting to lose himself and to flee in the same movement. 

"I-" _thank you, Sherlock Holmes, thank you, bless you,_ Jim blinked rapidly, looked away "Till we meet again then."

He glanced at the ledge, at the descent it promised, at the sweet end he was denying himself, before then turning on his heels and walking away, not once looking back at the other. 

_I owe you a fall Sherlock, I. O. U._

The memory dissolved into ribbons of reality, the rooftop vanishing along with the Sherlock and the Jim of that time, only leaving the apparition and the real criminal behind, floating in the ether. 

Neither said anything. 

_There wasn't anything to say._

For what might have been an eternity, Jim simply closed his eyes and let himself drift among space, ignoring the entire world, ignoring the passing of time and whatever might have been happening outside of his little bubble of calm. Everything was peaceful for once, his mind was silent, immobile, his inner turmoil released into the cosmos. Somewhere, far away, nebulas were exploding, galaxies crashing, black holes consuming. Somewhere, far away, the fury and pain he had felt after Sherlock's accusations were raging, but here, nothing could reach him. 

_Nothing._

"I can. " that familiar baritone, that velvety voice, permeating the nothing that separated them. 

_No one ever gets to me and no one ever will,_ Jim had said, and he hadn't lied. 

Sherlock hadn't gotten _to_ him, not quite, he had gotten _him_ like no one else had before, had looked at the accident and seen the murder, looked at Jim on that rooftop and seen a warped reflection of himself, he had looked, again and again, and found himself staring back. 

In another world that would have been enough for him to actually keep his promise

He had at first, Sherlock had actually gone to rehab the next day and stayed there until he got better. Every day, Jim had checked on him, asking almost hourly reports from his mole inside of the facility, needing to know everything he had done, everything he had eaten, said, all of the quips he had thrown and how annoyed he had been when Mycroft had visited him. Weeks after weeks, months after months, he had followed his progress, watching from afar. 

Then Sherlock had gotten out. 

Jim had gone to the factory that night, he had lain on the ground and observed the veiled sky, waiting for the other. Sherlock had been supposed to _find_ him after he got out, so really, Jim shouldn't have made it this easy by going back to the place where they had made that promise, but he hadn't cared about the game at this point, he had wanted the other and he had wanted him _now._

That night, he had waited for hours, watching condensation form small, wispy clouds every time he breathed. 

That night, Sherlock hadn't come. 

Jim had stayed on that rooftop every night for a week, following the other during the day to try and determine why he wasn't coming. He had waited and progressively the warmth Sherlock had imbued into his heart with his promise had seeped into the night, only leaving cold bones and a bitter taste in his mouth. 

_He had left a note, on the last day of that week, put the folded paper into a small box and placed it on the ground near the ledge, 'If you ever look for me, go to 44 Conduit Street and ask for Professor Moriarty.'_

_The factory was more or less officially his so no one would enter it and move the box, but when Sherlock found it he would have a starting point at least…_

_If he ever looked for him that was._

Jim had continued to wait after that, he wasn't that often in his Conduit Street flat, even if it was his favourite, but when he was he always kept an eye on the window, expecting Sherlock to arrive at any moment-

In the end, he never looked for Jim after getting out of rehab, not once, he had found a distraction, found Scotland Yard, and he had forgotten about his oath. 

After a while, Jim had stopped waiting. 

Oh, of course, the hope had still been there, keeping him alive, but he hadn't seen their reunion as something that would happen in the near future anymore, it had been more like an end game than anything else… Sherlock didn't want to keep his word? Alright, then Jim no longer had any obligation to him either. If he wasn't going to do what he had promised, why should the criminal? 

So Jim had sunk back into the shadows and bided his time, he had focused on his growing empire, on his web, and ignored the new detective helping Scotland Yard. For years, he had merely watched Sherlock's cases from afar and made sure that no criminal killed him while Jim had taken control of the underworld, only thinking of him when the utter boredom had gotten too much to bear-

Not because he had longed for companionship anymore, for someone that would 'see' him or whatever idiocy he had thought as a child- _Sherlock had seen him after all, he just hadn't cared-_ but because Sherlock represented the end of it all. 

The end of the world, of _theirs_ at least. 

_Jim remembered so many moments where he had been close to simply giving up, where he hadn't cared about all of his pretty schemes anymore. One time he had held a gun to his head- and Sebastian had begged him to put it down, begged him to stop- and this time, like every other time, only thinking of Sherlock, of the betrayal- of the fire that burned, that blazed, deep inside the core of his mind palace- had stilled his fingers._

_He couldn't just go this way, not when he was alone, not when Sherlock wouldn't even know his alter-ego had died. No, when he finally stepped into hell, he would make sure Sherlock's life was as ruined as his had been._

_Jim would make his entire universe collapse and force him to greet the devil at his side, that was only fair._

Years after years, he had planned, planned their games, their meetings, their deaths, he had wanted everything to be perfect- _perfection was the least they deserved,_ every detail to be scripted, he had _needed_ their ending to be glorious-

_No one had ever cried for little James Moriarty. Because of him, yes, certainly, but never for him. It didn't matter though, maybe he just didn't deserve tears, but Sherlock was certainly worthy of them. Jim would make the very universe weep over the tragedy of their deaths, no happily ever after for them._

Then John Watson had shown up from nowhere, had started changing Sherlock- _yet another disappointment-_ and Jim had needed to speed up his schedule. 

_Too bad, he wouldn't rule the entire world before his death, but well, it wasn't like Australia was ever going to be a very big part of his web anyway._

With every single one of his games, a part of him had still pointlessly hoped that the other would remember. He had waited next to his phone for hours after giving Sherlock his number as Jim from IT, he had been giddy at the thought of meeting him at the pool but Sherlock hadn't said anything about the rooftop, he had anticipated contact from the other after that confrontation but none had ever come...

Afterwards, there had been Mycroft, clever, restrained Mycroft and his little games- _he didn't call them games, of course, he was much too proper for those after all, but they were games nonetheless_ \- Mycroft and the agony reverberating through every inch of his mind palace, through the infinity of the void and the star clusters, Mycroft and all of his pretty stories. 

Jim had hung from his wrists for days- _weeks? Months?,_ bright lights and loud noises stopping him from ever falling asleep, bone-deep exhaustion and never-ending hunger addling his brain, beatings and drugs used in a useless effort to keep him out of his mind. 

Not that it had worked. Even if the pain had managed to reach him inside his mind, he had given no outward sign of discomfort, made them think he was insensitive and kept his eyes fixed on the wall, on the name he had carved again and again- _SherlockSherlockSherlock, the look in Mycroft's eyes had been delectable when he had seen it, they had never found out how he had managed to do it._ Questions had made him smirk, taunt, pain had made him close off, sink into his memories, only Mycroft had gotten any real reaction out of him. 

_"What do you want, Mr Moriarty? We both know that you have no reason to be here. "_

_A sweet smile, a tilted head._

_"Don't I? C'mon honey, don't play dumb, that's just insulting to the both of us." A glance at the walls, an understanding. "We both know what I want. "_

_SherlockSherlockSherlock._

The Ice Man had accepted the deal in the end, the tale of his brother's childhood in exchange for some parts of his web, Sherlock's life story for some crumbs, but really, they had both known that the information hadn't been the goal anymore. Mycroft had tried to break Jim in the short time he had until the fail-safes started going off and the criminal had smirked, bowed and dived straight into his mind.

_At the end of his stay, even sinking into the memories hadn't been able to provide any sort of relief from the world. Jim didn't like thinking of that last week._

Still, he had gotten out, he had survived and put himself back together somewhat in the same shape, he hadn't given anything he hadn't wanted to give and he had learned everything he had wanted to know. 

Good, great, _perfect._

Mycroft had invited him to Sherrinford for Christmas- _the only reason he had accepted was because the Ice Man had looked like merely asking was leaving a bitter taste in his mouth-_ and Jim had decided to just recover in the meantime. 

Thinking about Christmas had brought back memories though, of Jim writing letters to the boy who had seen him as a child and never sending them, of him watching Sherlock in a drug den on Christmas Eve, of Mycroft telling him about Sherlock's favourite meal as a child. 

He hadn't resisted the urge to see Sherlock one last time before their final game started, to give him one last chance-

"Jim. " 

The criminal turned when he heard his name, his eyes falling on Sherlock. His physical form had shifted ever since the rooftop's disappearance, the eternity Jim had spent drifting in nothingness had been enough for the apparition to change. He didn't look like a walking skeleton anymore, his eyes were clear, his skin healthy, and the shade had grown older, stabler. 

_He was wearing the same shirt he had been on Christmas Eve,_ Jim idly noted, a wave of dizziness and vertigo momentarily making his vision swim. 

_Right, he should get to planning now that his mind wasn't screaming anymore, staying inside his head for too long was never good for his body._

"And now?" Sherlock asked, the whisper drifting in nothingness. 

Unmoving, Jim let himself float in the void, idly watching the detective from the corner of his eyes. 

"Now what? "

_What what what? What would he do, what would happen to him, what had changed?_

_Nothing._

His question remained unanswered, the apparition shimmering, blinking in and out of existence, before suddenly looking so much more solid, so much more _present._

"Jim, listen to me-" Sherlock took his hand, warmth seeping between their joined fingers, and in the background, a star burned brighter "You need to wake up, it's been a while already. "

He knew that, he had been distantly aware of Sebastian talking to him, of the sniper forcing him to drink, of the man telling something about a ringing phone, but it had all so sounded far away, so far away, and Jim had had no problem ignoring it. Nothing Mycroft had done had managed to bring him back out- _nothing Mycroft had done had been to bring him back out after a while anyway, just to reach him when he was down there-_ so Sebastian certainly wasn't going to succeed this way. 

He knew he was starting to push his limits- _the Ice Man hadn't made him push them, he had forced him to completely obliterate them, consequences be damned-_ and that soon he would get too weak to create coherent schemes, but he couldn't get out yet. 

"I know. "

Sherlock didn't seem like he had heard him, like he _could_ hear him. He continued. 

"You're in deep Jim, way too deep." And he sounded so _sad-_

"I _know_."

Of course, he knew, and he had no intention of coming back up, not yet, not when he didn't know what he should even do. He still needed to formulate a new plan, ignore whatever had happened with Sherlock and go back to his original scheme.

 _Destroy his reputation, meet on a rooftop, make him jump, he still owed him a fall after all_. Those steps were pretty simple and self-explanatory, the problem was getting there. 

Stealing the jewels again was out, of course, Jim wasn't going to repeat himself. Maybe he could break into Buckingham Palace and hold the Queen at gunpoint until MI5 showed up, that would be dramatic enough to garner attention at least. Add Pentonville and the bank of England to that and his trial would be the event of the decade...

It would be easy enough to turn them all against Sherlock after that, he could just use that stupid video if he wanted, the images of the world's only consulting detective kissing his nemesis would probably be enough to turn even his pet doctor against him. 

People loved fairy tales, didn't they? He would craft one for them, a pretty little thing where the brave Knight was in fact an evil sorcerer and the villain was an innocent Prince brainwashed by a love spell. He would make it so believable, so plausible, and then he would shove it down their throats until his tale was the only thing they could speak of. 

"Go away Sherlock, I'm not in the mood." Jim muttered, pictures and half-formed plans materializing in front of him, pure sorcerer and wicked Prince kissing in a corner of his vision. 

The apparition still didn't react to his words. 

"Please, this is not the solution."

_Then what is?_

Sherlock didn't answer the thought, instead he moved, floated right through the diagrams, and embraced him. Holding him so close that Jim could smell his aftershave, he let out a shuddering breath and pressed their forehead together, the heat of his body warming seeping into Jim's skin-

_The heat?_

The apparitions weren't supposed to exude warmth, simply because they weren't really alive in the first place, they weren't _real_ and Jim hadn't wanted to ever mix reality with his mind, so _how-_

"I-" Sherlock halted, hesitated "I realised some things after our conversation, I thought back on what you said, on memories that I had treated as dreams, and I'm sorry, I really am." He whispered against his skin, warmwarm _warm_ breath brushing against his cheek- _I'm sorry, I really am, just like he had said on the rooftop, just like he had murmured when he had realised he wasn't alone in the world-_ and Jim's eyes snapped open. 

It took him a few seconds to adapt to the luminosity, to the feeling of being back on his own body- _a body that hadn't moved in at least a week if the dust on his shelves was any indication-_ but when he did, he immediately tensed. Sherlock was there, really _there_ , holding him flush against his chest, his grip almost tight enough to hurt, he was there and he was holding him like the criminal would disappear if he let go. 

_Too late,_ his mind sang, _toolatetoolatetoolate,_ and Jim was about to push the other away when Sherlock spoke-

"I came to 44 Conduit Street and asked for Professor Moriarty, I realize I'm quite a few years late but do you think he would still accept to meet me? "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope that y'all liked it!  
> Most of the confusion was intended as Jim's mind palace is quite a chaotic place but I hope this was still understandable :)
> 
> Next chapter will have Sherlock's pov after Jim left!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, stay tuned for the next chapter(s?), hope you liked this one!


End file.
